


Librería del pecado

by DorMarunt



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (not literally), (oh look more tags), Aftercare, Blood Play, Bookstore AU, Bruises, Eventual Smut, Everyone is in their early 20s, Explosions, Face Slapping, Fake/Pretend Relationship, IT'S ME, Knifeplay, Light-Hearted, M/M, Oblivious Andrés, Subspace, Switching, angel Mirko, breath play, let's face it, pre-canon AU (lol), smart-ass Martin, they gon' bang eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt
Summary: Martín is having a blast working at this small bookstore with his best friend, Mirko. It's all books and friends and silliness until a Man starts coming by, handsome and mysterious and always eager to talk to Martín.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 81
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just having fun with this, and a good hint is how the author mentioned in this chapter is called Pedro which is a direct reference to another Pedro that we know who's also an author (and an artist too. Fic!Pedro can't paint; I asked him).
> 
> So yay! Non-angst from DorMarunt! If it gets too chilly, it must be hell freezing over.

“Hey, Martín. That handsome guy’s here for you again.”

“He’s not here for  _ me,” _ he protests, but adjusts his clothes nonetheless. His slacks were neatly pressed, as had his uniform been (that morning). He really wishes that management had chosen a different color for their uniforms, but there he was, all flesh-colored and extremely self-conscious about his body. No reason he should, Mirko keeps insisting, but then again Mirko was Mirko and what else would he say. 

He’s staring at Martín from the doorway, smiling bright and eager, and Martín just feels like elbowing him in the gut as he squeezes past him and out of the backroom. Out of love, not violence. He looked presentable enough - ever since the Man started coming by with some regularity, Martín had taken to brushing his hair every morning. It mostly kept by the time he walked in, elegant in a way that felt unfair for his years - but oddly not unearned.

There he was, right in the geography section, flipping through some travel guides, and Martín ducked just a bit to catch his reflection in the shiny wrapper covering an art album. Definitely not the best way to see one’s reflection but it would do. Martín was pleased that his smile was restrained enough when he reached the man, stopped just close enough and cleared his voice.

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Hello.” 

“Uh, hello, I should have probably lead with that. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Do you have any other guides for the Maldives?”

Martín takes a deep breath. The Maldives. 

“The Lonely Planet,” he tilts his head to the book the man was currently holding, “is really the best one. There’s also the ‘Super Cheap Maldives’ but well—” Martín smiles in lieu of finishing the sentence, because they both knew the guy didn’t look like the type to travel on a budget.

“Well then,” he looks again at Martín’s nametag, then back at his face, “thank you, Martín. I’ll get this one.”

Martín smiles, mouth closed as if to keep any one of the million ways to ask the Man what his name was from spilling out of his mouth. It was ‘inappropriate to fraternize with the enemy’, as Raquel, the manager told him. What she meant to say was, ‘please stop flirting with the patrons’, but Martín had caught her on a bad day when she had to deal with a difficult customer all the while Martín was in a corner, getting the number of a particularly cute customer. He had received an informal warning for all this ‘fraternizing’, but hey, Raquel wasn’t there now and Mirko would never snitch. If anything, Mirko encouraged this kind of behavior (and may have done it a couple of times himself).

That’s why they dubbed their little corner of heaven - and gainful employment - “librería del pecado”. Informally, of course. 

Naturally, everyone knew - even the owner - but they never addressed it officially so it was all good. It could remain their little secret. (everyone’s)

Martín hurried to the register to ring the Man up, hoping he’d pay by card, so that he’d get a chance to look at his name. Sadly, he paid cash, like he did every time. 

“So should I wrap this up?”

“Excuse me?”

“The book. Is it a gift for someone special?” 

The guy smiled, clearly amused but not at all bothered by Martín’s ham-fisted attempt at dragging any kind of information from him. 

“Well, it’s a question of optics really. But no, not wrapped, thank you. It’s for myself.”

“Oh? Planning a trip in… January?”

“Well, the Maldives are spectacular at any time of year.”

“Huh. Don’t you have exams?”

“I’ve finished university four years ago.”

“Well then, exams to grade. You look like the type.”

“What’s that?”

“You know. Air of superiority, loves to hear themselves talk. A teacher.”

Martín had money on the guy being a teacher - Mirko put money that he’d be an artist, but let’s face it, art didn’t pay  _ that _ well. And while academia wasn’t a gold-paved career path either, Martín  _ had _ had plenty of conversations with the guy. He definitely had a (hot) teacher vibe going on, not just in the wealth of his knowledge but also in the way that he spoke, authoritarian and calm.

He was both those things when he laughed warmly and, fortunately, did not get offended by Martín’s comments.

“I’m not a teacher.”

And that’s all he said, taking his book, nodding a respectful goodbye and slipping out of the bookstore. 

“I’ll have my five euros, please.”

Mirko, despite his size, could lurk invisibly even behind the narrowest of shelving. He showed up right behind Martín’s shoulder, holding his palm up.

“No. He just said he isn’t a teacher; he didn’t say he was any kind of artist, so you did not win.”

“Yeah but you definitely lost. Five euros.” Mirko pushed his palm until Martín slapped it away.

“That’s not how it works.”

“What do you mean, that’s precisely how this works!”

“Fine. Or — how about I re-do the window display? I know you hate it.”

“That would be great, thank you! But you still owe me five euros.”

The bookstore was brimming with people for the book launch. There was a bit of press, quite a lot of fans, the typical rubber-neckers and the few lost people hoping there’d be a buffet - honestly, Martín still remembers the first time someone asked about the buffet at one of their first launches, and the way his incredulous, ‘A  _ buffet? _ In a _ bookstore?’ _ really thinned the crowd.

(The balking, disbelieving “in a bookstore?” became his go-to response whenever patrons asked for the dumbest shit - which, sadly, they were wont to do - and it was so effective that his technique propagated not just to his coworkers, but to the other bookstores in the chain, too. Martín was inordinately proud of this.)

Silene was there too, as was Denver, both of them on loan from their respective bookstores to help herd the over-excited crowd and to, basically, put the place back together once the horde retreated. It was also the day that The Man usually dropped by, and Martín could not have been happier to have reinforcements. 

It wasn’t a major launch, their modest space wouldn’t allow for anything large-scale - that’s what the so-called ‘flagship’ bookstore was for - but the author was local and had specifically asked to have the event there. He’d been a regular for years before he broke in the publishing world and found his own book on the shelves of his self-professed ‘favorite place on earth’. A heart-warming story of inspiration, perseveration and raw creation - and yet Martín did not have two fucks to rub together about the whole thing (even though he loved the author, Pedro; he was a really fun guy, if kinda weird) because all he could think of was that he’ll die behind that till and won’t have a chance to chat up his favorite customer.

Mostly because he wasn’t there.

The event ran a bit long since the author insisted on signing every book, paper, or magazine that was shoved in his face. And then he decided to ‘stay behind and chat’ with his readers, which the entire staff hated with a burning and obvious passion. Stacks of books were being carried left and right and put in their rightful places on the shelves, chairs were folded and lugged in the back, shelves were moved. Pedro didn’t move. And when it was merely thirty minutes before closing time, when Martín thought they’d have to toss the author and his ‘fans’ out like drunkards out of a bar, the Man walks in. 

He walks in, a vision in dress shoes and a formal suit, and he goes straight to Pedro, greets him and starts chatting. Martín is equal parts surprised that they knew each other and jealous to not have been the first person the Man went to.

Milliseconds later, Mirko magics himself right by Martín’s side, leaning in.

“Can I have my five euros now?”

“You really need to ask for a raise, hermano.”

“He knows Pedro.”

“So?  _ I _ know Pedro. Half the neighborhood knows Pedro. Hell, judging by the sales we made today, a whole lot of people know Pedro.”

“Yeah, but Pedro’s an artist.”

“Now you’re just grasping at straws.”

“Why don’t you just ask him what he does?”

“Primarily to fuck with you. You’re just,” he turns to Mirko, grabbing fistfuls of his beige uniform in an overly dramatic movement, “you’re the very core that my whole world revolves around, you know?”

Mirko laughs, lighting up as he takes Martín’s hands in his. “I do.” He’s joking - mostly. About ninety-nine percent joking.

So, okay, they may have hooked up in the past. Just the once. Before becoming coworkers, when they were just classmates and - briefly - roommates. The only thing more amazing than the sex was that when they realized it wouldn’t work out any further than that, they both shrugged and went on being the absolute best of friends. Martín still wonders about his luck with Mirko and with how that whole thing, counterintuitively, only strengthened their bond. He’s smiling into Mirko’s eyes when someone taps his shoulder.

He’s got his hands fisted in Mirko’s shirt, they’re making exaggerated heart-eyes at each other, and someone taps his shoulder. Instant, firm, and  _ hard _ ‘no’ on Martín’s part, who had a ‘thing’ with being touched by strangers. He turns around with an appropriately fierce look in his eyes, not letting go of the shirt.

“Can I help you?” he asks in a tone that only years of customer service could polish into being more polite than offensive.

“Sorry, Martín, I see that you’re busy.”

Martín never let go of anything in his life faster than he let go of Mirko’s shirt.

“Nope. Not at all.”

“Well,” Mirko butts in, pulling his shirt down, “that’s not really true, you’re still on your shift so you kinda should be. Busy. The bestsellers display’s been destroyed by vultures so you’re more than welcome to help—”

He just waves Mirko off, who finally gets the hint and trudges away to fix the display once again.

“Hello, not-teacher. How were the Maldives?”

“Marvelous.”

“I’m so happy to hear that. Was the book any good?”

“The book?”

“The Blue guide. The Lonely Planet? You bought it right before you left.”

“Oh yes, extremely helpful,” said the man, obviously lying. “I was wondering—” before he had a chance to finish his sentence, Pedro joins them and gets his hand around Martín’s shoulders. He’s proud to have only recoiled just a little at the unexpected touch.

“Martín, thank you for being here for me this evening, it meant a lot to me to have had you guys by my side. You were here since before this book was even born in my mind, I owe a lot of it to the little corner of heaven you guys keep here. Please send my regards to Raquel, will you?”

Martín nods, professional and not at all like he wanted to ‘excuse-you’ the guy for interrupting. He didn’t; if sniping at customers was permitted - within reason and when well-deserved - sniping at authors was severely frowned upon. So he played nice.

“My pleasure, Pedro. We’ll always be here for you,” he said, not paying any attention to what he was saying, wanting only to come back to the conversation he had already been having before Pedro so rudely cut in. 

“And thank you for dropping by, Andrés,” Pedro says, and Martín screams internally at finally -  _ finally _ \- finding out the man’s name. Bless Pedro, Pedro was a treasure, Pedro was Martín’s favorite person in the whole world.

Okay, second favorite.

Third.

Close fourth, and dropping lower on the list the longer he lingered.

Pedro slaps Andrés’ shoulder a couple of times, they kiss good bye and suddenly Martín has Andrés’ full attention again.

“You were saying?”

“I was about to ask if you had the time to join me for dinner sometime, I rather wanted to pick that brain of yours about this engineering problem that I’ve been having.”

The heights that the first half of the sentence took him on could not be shaken even by the way the sentence ended. An engineering problem. 

Two things sprung in his mind - one, Andrés wasn’t an artist; what kind of artist had engineering problems? And two, Andrés wanted to have dinner with him. To talk about an engineering problem, sure, but— dinner!

Sadly for Martín, it turns out that Andrés did, in fact, want to talk about engineering. He was rather disappointed with that since he’d made quite an effort to look as effortlessly cool as he did, his red-lined leather jacket contrasting with a neatly pressed shirt and slacks. (Mirko had pressed them, Martín was only able to iron additional, never-quite-parallel creases in his trousers. He’s never told Mirko, but he’d marry him in a hot second were there not so many other tantalizing prospects out there.)

So he’d made an effort, he’d had one shot of tequila so ‘soothe his nerves’ right before going out that did nothing of the sort, but he  _ tried. _ Andrés didn’t acknowledge how spiffy he looked, something that Martín wasn’t consciously expecting but dearly wanted to happen. It didn’t; Andrés seemed to genuinely only want him for his mind.

How tragic. 

Martín would absolutely not allow things to remain like that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > At that point, Martin had seen the Man a couple of times in the bookstore. From the start, he'd been one of those customers who were not seemingly terrified by or just uninterested in his presence - no, he _actively_ engaged Martin. Each time the Man visited, they ended up having long, pleasant conversations that left _Martin_ all flustered and rosy. The Man had been basically chatting him up for weeks and Martin… he just gave him another guy’s phone number. All the rosiness drained from his cheeks, replaced by sheer mortification. The man looked at the paper, at the name and number written on it, then back at Martin, not even trying to hide a sly smile.
>> 
>> “The Professor?” 
>> 
>> “You know him?”
>> 
>> “Oh believe me,” the man said confidently and ambiguously, “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, kids, it's going to be one wild ride.

Andrés orders a very specific bottle of wine then sets off talking about the little country town that his family was from. Martín knew the area, he knew the houses that people lived in around those parts and what kind of people they were. That certainly explained a lot about Andrés, about how he carried himself, how he dressed. How he talked. He spoke of things that Martín didn’t particularly care about and was maybe even a little peeved by, but Andrés still managed to reel in his attention, managed to keep him quiet for what seemed like ages. Realistically, it was until the food arrived and Andrés had to take occasional breaks to eat. Martín was able, then, to squeeze in questions and to try to steer the conversation away from where Andrés was from and more to who he was - but to no avail. Andrés seamlessly segues from the history of the region to his own family’s history, and Martín wonders why he was there in the first place. 

He thinks back to the first time the man was in the bookstore and asked about some very specific engineering books and how excited Martín was to talk about the subject. Naturally, he bragged with his own studies - he was a Civil Engineer, after all (though on a temporary professional detour; jobs were hard to come by for people with no experience) so he had a lot of input, talking incessantly as he pulled out books from the shelves.

“Although,” he placed another book on top of the small stack already in the man’s arms, “if you want resources on engineering, this really isn't the place for it. I can introduce you to someone in the university library; they have access to the best material and the latest research. It all depends on exactly what you want to know.”

The man didn’t tell him anything specific, Martín only later realized. He said that he was writing a treatise on 'the interweaving twine that links together physics, engineering, and theological philosophy', as he called it, smiling proudly and completely unselfconscious at how pompously ridiculous he sounded. Martín was both confused and weirdly aroused by the concept and he probably would have put in a bit more effort in thinking about it if the man wasn't so unfairly attractive.

And aware of it, too.

Feeling an urge to be helpful, to impress the handsome man who may or may not have been flirting with him, Martín gave him the number of the university librarian. Martín spent a lot of time there, getting intimately acquainted with their vast offerings of engineering-related material, and less-then-intimately acquainted with the librarian. Not for the lack of trying on his part - Martín hit on him relentlessly; in the beginning with the specific intent to score, but after that only so he could see Sergio get all rosy-cheeked and flustered.

At that point, Martín had seen the Man a couple of times in the bookstore. From the start, he'd been one of those customers who were not seemingly terrified by or just uninterested in his presence - no, he _actively_ engaged Martín. Each time the Man visited, they ended up having long, pleasant chats that left _Martín_ all flustered and rosy. The Man had been basically chatting him up for weeks and Martín… he just gave him another guy’s phone number. All the rosiness drained from his cheeks, replaced by sheer mortification. The man looked at the paper, at the name and number written on it, then back at Martín, not even trying to hide a sly smile.

“The Professor?” 

“You know him?”

“Oh believe me,” the man said confidently and ambiguously, “I do.”

And then he turned around and classily fucked off, leaving Martín clutching white-knuckled at the edge of the counter. Mirko stepped slowly closer, resting on the opposite end, giving him a compassionate look.

“Wow, Martín, brother, that— that was painful; I felt that. That was the opposite of ‘having game’; are you alright?”

“No? Don’t—” He raised his hands in a ‘do not touch me’ sign then sat down.

So he does like to sulk, Mirko was right. He slunk in the chair and sulked but had every reason to do so. Not only did he give the number of _another guy_ to the man he’s been low-key hitting on for weeks, but the man knew Sergio. _How._ Hopefully not the way (the only way) Martín imagined.

Back at the restaurant, Andrés keeps recounting his family mansion’s history, finally wrapping up the story while holding up his wine glass and looking wistfully at the ruby-colored liquid.

“And now that the land is back in our possession, the vineyard has grown, so we need to extend the cellar back to how it was in the sixties.”

Martín raises his own glass, unsure whether it was a toasting kind of situation. It didn’t seem to be, so he takes a sip - the wine was quite nice, actually - and places his glass down, smiling politely. He could hardly wait for Andrés to get to the point, to what exactly he could help him with.

Or not, he was certainly not an eyesore so Martín could just sit and stare and daydream.

“We could hire diggers, of course, but I’m sure there’s a more… elegant solution to this problem. I’m naturally inclined to propose explosives, but the rest of the structure needs to be supported throughout _and_ after the whole affair.”

And that’s when Martín’s brain boots back up, because— engineer.

“After? You said the room was always a part of the initial structure, it shouldn’t post any major problems to open the wall back up.”

“It was; the cellar was much bigger, but they closed off half of it after they sold most of the vineyard. See, this is why I need an engineer, I don’t know what I’m doing and I wouldn’t want to do anything to endanger the building or anything it stands for.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be a lot of reinforcements to be made, given what I understood from your _very thorough_ history. Do you have some measurements I can do a demo calculation on?”

The waiter hands him some paper, he takes out his pen and he scoots over to work out with Andrés what could be done.

All in all, it proves to be a really fun evening - and he even gets to do some math! 

He pushes the sketches and calculations to Andrés, who studies the paper for a few seconds before folding it and putting it in his jacket pocket.

“So - what do you say, Martín? Do you want to help me?”

“Hm?” Martín was in the middle of shuffling his chair to a respectable distance, so when he turns to Andrés, their faces are mere inches away. His breath hitches when he looks up, where Andrés is smiling with a bold confidence that makes Martín instantly nod. “Yep, sure.”

He’s not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, but he does not regret doing it.

“Great. What time does your shift end tomorrow?”

“Eight.” It always ends at eight, did the guy not see the schedule posted on the door? But Martín isn’t going to get snappy about it; he wasn’t on bookstore grounds.

“I’ll pick you up at eight, then.”

“Oh. Okay. Better make it ten minutes past? We do need to close the books for the day.”

“Ten past eight then. I’ll pick you up at the bookstore, and we’ll talk more then.”

Right on cue, the waiter appears right by their table, smiling at them with alarming politeness.

“Can I help you with anything else?” He asks, then, immediately informs them, flatly, “We’re closing in fifteen minutes.”

“Just the cheque, thank you,” says Andrés.

“Of course.”

They barely have time to get their wallets out that the waiter is back, holding the bill and a wireless POS terminal. _Presumptuous,_ thinks Martín _._ Andrés, who was closer, hands the waiter his card, then waives his hand at Martín when he offers him a bill.

“It’s on me, I asked you out for your help, and you saved me. You saved the mansion. It’s the least I could do.” He takes his receipt when handed, then gets up. 

They part with a handshake, and it should have felt impersonal, sterile, but the way Andrés encased his palm with both of his, smiling warmly, thanking him again— it made Martín tingle all over. 

The next day he brings a freshly pressed shirt with him to the bookstore, planning to change in it right before closing up. Mirko, who was long asleep by the time Martín came home from his da- dinner, is starved for curiosity but too proud to outright ask about it. He only finds out that they’d meet again that evening because Martín asks him again to iron a shirt, but other than that, he gets offered no details.

Mirko lasts until one hour before closing time. The bookstore is empty and Martín is quietly restocking a shelf, lugging a stack of books up the sturdy ladder. He feels it creak and settle when Mirko rests his foot on the bottom wrung on the other side, looking up at him. 

“I’m thinking to make pizza for dinner, what do you say? Oh, that’s right - _you don’t care,_ because you’re going out on a date with Mystery Man again. Twice in as many nights, you have to admit the guy’s really into you.”

“It’s not a date, and he’s not into me,” which was both true and terrible. 

“Not a date but he wants to see you again? What, is he head-hunting you for his own bookstore?” 

Which was a fair assumption to make, since Martín had already been offered another job, at a competing bookstore chain, while on the job at this bookstore.

“Nah.”

“Nah? Just ‘nah’? You came home after eleven, what the hell did you even talk about?”

“To be honest, it was mostly him who did the talking; I just did some math. And then I explained said math. He’s really clever for a words guy.”

“Speaking of, what _does_ he do for a living?”

“You know, it never really came up.”

“How. How did that not come up; you spent almost, what? Four hours with him; what did you talk about?”

“Well, I talked mostly about physics, myself. And explosives. Him, he was more—”

_“Explosives?”_

“Yeah, he wants to poke a hole in his parents’ house.”

Mirko looks at him, frozen and incredulous.

“What?” Martín asks, when Mirko still doesn’t say anything even after the fifth silent blink.

“I— Poke a hole? In his parents’ house?“

“Yeah, they walled over half a cellar when they had to sell most of their vineyard, but then they got it back. Wine’s back on the menu and they need the storage space.”

“Sounds legit.”

“Yeah,” Martín nods, but then picks up on Mirko’s sarcasm. “What?”

“Martín, there’s something shady about this.”

“What? You think this whole story was fake? An elaborate story just so he’d get in my pants?”

“No, not at all; you don’t need any kind of story to let someone in your pants. Hey!” He ducks when Martín steps down from the ladder specifically to swat his shoulder. “I just think this is strange. Just— be wary of this guy, okay?”

Obviously, Martín forgets all about it by the time it’s ten minutes past eight and he meets Andrés. They go to another fancy place, one that Martín would never have visited himself, where he notices with considerable relief that the prices weren’t as ridiculous as he initially feared. They make small talk as they order their food, but Martín has two big questions he doesn’t want to skip again: who Andrés is and how he knows Sergio. Not necessarily in that order, but definitely the both of them. 

After the waiter takes their order (and their menus), Martín settles back against his chair and decides to start strong. 

“I hope it’s okay if I ask, but what exactly is it that you do for a living? You somehow missed that part yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. No idea how it slipped my mind - I’m a writer. I thought that was clear from when I mentioned what I was working on?”

Martín feels the weight of a five euro bill slipping out of his wallet. Fuck, Mirko wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. 

“Oh,” he says, trying to remember what that ridiculous paper was about. “I thought it was just some research paper,” _not your magnum opus,_ but he keeps that part to himself. “How’s that coming along?”

“It’s a really intensive process, but a true labor of love.”

“Speaking of,” Martín takes a breath, when realizing they weren’t speaking about that at all. Well, _-ish._ He goes for it anyway. He had an itemized to-do list and that had never failed Martín. He just wants to rephrase it somehow other than ‘how do you know Sergio’. Fortunately, he’s pretty good at thinking on his feet and recovers quickly, deciding to go for it in a roundabout way. “If you knew the Professor, why did you come to the bookstore for resources?”

“Actually it was him who sent me your way.”

 _Oh._

“He’s my brother; Sergio. He knows the work I do and said that you’d be perfect to help me.”

“Me?”

“The bookstore.” He takes a sip of his glass, then sets it down. “And you, specifically. I was telling him about this great little bookstore I’ve found and it turns out that he knew you. Apparently, after spending the majority of your day among books, you like to spend the rest of it among _other_ books. That’s admirable, this thirst for knowledge that you have. It’s something worth holding on to.”

“Thank you?” Martín takes the compliment, but revels more in the knowledge that Andrés didn’t know Sergio in any biblical way.

“So. I have the plans and all the documentation you asked for, do you want to have a look over it before the food arrives? 

Martín nods, taking out the proper notebook he’s brought along this time. Andrés sets a few folders on the table, then they start discussing.

They wouldn’t need too many explosives and it’s nothing that Andrés should have any difficulty in procuring - not that he seemed in any way concerned about that. Martín tells him that a crew of four would more than suffice - three at a stretch, he conceded when Andrés inquired - and the whole operation could be done within an hour and a half.

“So - could I interest you in blowing some stuff up?”

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” Martín laughs, softly, bouncing the ends of the pen on the table. 

“No, I mean - do you want to come to the mansion and help me? You’d get a chance to set the explosives up yourself.”

Martín takes a deep breath, looking around uncomfortably. It’s not that he doesn’t want to; he desperately does, but he’s got a little bit of history that tells him that… maybe he shouldn’t.

“It’s okay, Sergio told me. And don’t worry, I can wholeheartedly relate to the desire to blow things up.”

Sergio, that absolute blabbermouth. He’d only told Sergio about that whole thing because they’d just met and Martín thought he could impress the bespectacled librarian by showing him what a daredevil he was. (He wasn’t, but for a librarian? It had to sound thrilling.)

“What exactly did Sergio tell you?”

“That you have, let’s say, _practical_ experience with explosives.”

That’s certainly one way of putting it. 

“Did he tell you _how_ practical?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t that big of a deal, really. It _was_ an abandoned building, but structurally it was sound. It was supposed to hold; it certainly wasn’t Martín’s fault that the plans he’d gotten his hands on weren’t accurate. He scurried away the second the building collapsed, and the police never found out it was him behind the whole thing. He’d rather keep it that way, since he was rather passionate about finishing his master’s degree from outside prison.

“He told you about that and you still thought that I’d be the right person to help you _not_ tear down a house with explosives?”

“You’ve just proved to me that you know how to do it right this time. Not to mention,” Andrés smirks, “you look precisely like the kind of person who’d learn from that kind of… incident. Am I right?”

“You’re not wrong.” He wasn’t. Martín recreated the plans of the building from memory - after the fact - and redid his calculations. He knows what he’d done wrong and how to never ever do it wrong again.

“I trust you,” said Andrés, carelessly, like trust was a just thing he gave away as freely as he did his smiles.

“Well, that’s probably a bad idea—” 

Andrés interrupts him.

“Is it, though?”

“No. Alright, you’re right. I got this. I’ve been thinking about it for months, I know where I went wrong, and even though _it wasn’t my fault,”_ he makes sure to put that out there since it really _hasn’t_ been his fault and he felt it was important to be known. “I now know what to look for. Plus, I trust you have both the current and the initial house plans?”

“I do.”

“And I’ll have time to give the place a once-over beforehand.”

This is where Andrés falters for a bit.

“What do you mean?”

“I won’t just go to the cellar and blow it up, I’ll have a chance to uh, visually inspect the structure myself, right?”

“Well,” Andrés takes a sip from his glass and gulps down, almost audibly. “I was thinking we could get it over within a day. I have other matters to attend to, in town.”

“Oh. When do you have the whole,” Martín mimes a silent explosion with his hands, “ _thing_ planned?”

“This weekend, or the next. When are you free?”

When _wasn’t_ he? Especially for Andrés.

“This weekend’s fine.”

“Stellar. Let’s go over this again, shall we?”

When Saturday rolls by, Martín’s ready. He has his work jeans, his pocket knife - no reason to take it, it just felt like the most sophisticated thing he owned (it a gift from his father and he loved it dearly) and his notebook, and waits for Andrés right outside his building. He’s just finishing his cigarette before Andrés pulls up in front of him in a classy-looking car. 

“Good morning, are you ready?”

“Absolutely.”

The house - mansion, Andrés was correct to call it mansion - was a gorgeous old building that Martín instantly fell in love with. The plans seemed to be correct and Martín felt solidly confident in his calculations. Martín has a chance to walk around the place for a bit, taking care to note the structure of the building, and then they descended to the cellar where they meet the third member of their little explosive party.

Sergio.

Sergio, who greeted Martín by the way of an exhausted grunt as he was hauling wine boxes to the furthest end of the wall.

“Oh, hey! I didn’t think I’d find you here,” Martín shakes Sergio’s trembling hand, who immediately gets back to stacking boxes. 

“Well, it _is_ the family business,” Andrés chimes in, elegantly stepping over a box and leading Martín to a wooden crate. “And here is the object of your work. Just as you asked for. Are you familiar with them?”

Martín takes a look at the explosives neatly arranged in the box, then looks back at Andrés and the heaving Sergio behind him. Suddenly, he hears all of Mirko’s warnings, all at once. He can’t say why, but he feels it in his gut, a little warning pulse that sends the blood rushing faster, making his ears ring. 

This looks shady as fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost 2 AM; I forgot that I started to post this and was working on chapter 3 in a different tab. Which was nice of me, but tomorrow-morning me will hate 2AM-me for it. (soz!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin goes boom-boom-ciao but not at all in the way you'd think.

Martín feels a cold, electric tingle shock down his spine, spread through his cheeks, turn metallic on his tongue. It was the very clear way his body tells him that he’s in danger, that he should be on alert. He hears Mirko’s voice, grilling him on the details of their Saturday plan, calling them - quite appropriately it seemed - ‘shady’. Martín doesn’t even know where to start with the whole thing, when Sergio catches his eye, sliding the last box on top of a high pile and turning around, looking… distinctly out of place. 

“Is that the wine?” Martín points at the boxes stacked up against the back wall of the room.

“Yes.”

“That’s probably not the best place for the glass bottles to be. What with the whole explosion and all.”

“According to your calculations, the explosions shouldn’t cause that much damage, right?”

“Right, but things are going to be decidedly worse on _this_ side of the wall. We should probably move them, just to be safe.”

Sergio stops and his whole demeanor shifts. He’s not his nervous-looking self, prone to babble when flustered, quick to shift his eyes while making himself small. He’s pulling himself up, and he _stills._

“What are the chances that the inventory won’t be damaged by the explosion?”

Martín’s taken aback at the rather skewed way of approaching the subject. Why take _some_ damage when you can take _no_ damage?

“I don’t know, but well over fifty percent if they’re stored properly.”

“They are. They stay here.”

“Listen, I’m more than willing to help you carry them out if you— “

“No. We’ll continue as planned.”

Huge fucking red flag.

“Andrés,” he turns, cautiously. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“This whole thing stinks. Important question - am I about to do something illegal?”

“Something… _else_ illegal, you mean. You did just break in.”

“I— what?”

“Alright, to be frank with you, this isn’t technically my place. Our place,” Andrés corrects.

“Technically.”

“And literally.”

“So we’re… we’re stealing something?” Martín was nothing if not quick on his feet.

“Eventually. If we actually make it past that wall.”

“And how exactly were you going to slip that past me?”

“Honestly? I didn’t think we’d get there, I knew you’d figure it out.”

“And what if I said no? What stops me from getting out of this place and going straight to the police?” 

“I have three hundred thousand and _one_ reasons you wouldn’t do that. The first being that you’re involved, too. And you don’t seem like the law-abiding type of citizen that would get all consumed by stepping on the other side of the law and turning himself in out of guilt.”

Martín balks at him, at his bold presumptuousness. He wasn’t wrong, just a little _too_ confident, maybe.

“Alright,” he says cautiously. “The other three hundred thousand— I hope—” He sighs. “That better be ‘three hundred thousand’ money. Euro. Cold hard cash.”

“Not as such. Or rather, not yet. I will cover your share until we transform whatever it is on the other side of the wall into ‘cold hard cash’, as you put it.”

“So you don’t know what’s on the other side of the wall?”

“I know most of it. Not down to an itemized list, but I know more than enough.”

“And the information is credible?”

“I have to say, I love how invested you’ve suddenly become in this. I take it you’re in?”

“I never said I was in.”

“True, but you never said you _weren’t_ in, either. You alluded to the fact that you might _not_ be in, but I don’t see you walking out. What’s more, you’re very involved in finding out what your cut is.”

“If I get arrested, I deserve to know what I’m going inside for.”

“We won’t get arrested.” Said Sergio, way too confident.

“Oh? How can you be so sure?”

“I’m not saying we’ve done this before,” said Andrés, not saying but heavily implying it, “but we know what we’re doing.” 

Sergio picks up, seamlessly, and Martín watches this surreal ping-pong of whatever the hell it was that his dick got him into.

“Everything has been planned down to the smallest detail. If we deviate as little as possible, if we get through that wall in the next,” Sergio looks at his watch, “twenty-five minutes, there’s gonna be no trace of us.”

“There’s going to be _a mountain_ of trace leading to us!”

“No, there isn’t,” says Andrés, firm and final. “You know how I said that I trusted you? It may seem hypocritical now, but trust us too. We know what we’re doing.”

“You—” Martín shakes his head as he looks for words. “I mean, _you_?” he points to Andrés as he fixes the explosives to the precisely calculated points on the wall. “You, I can totally see.” He needs to ask for that five euro back now. Even if he potentially won’t mind losing five euros in the future, it was a matter of principle. Andrés was _not_ just some artist. “But Sergio?” Sergio gingerly hands him the next block of explosives. “You’re a librarian!”

“And you’re a bookseller. What of it?”

“Yeah, but I’m the type of bookseller that likes to blow shit up. You sit in a library all day.”

“Not _all_ day,” adds Andrés, who’s checking the placement of the explosives on the wall against the plans. “We do spend our time in more, _productive_ ways too.” 

“How is neither of you in prison?”

“We’re _that_ good, Martín. Are we all set now?”

They were. They were perfect. They set the timer then rush out of the room, crouching behind a wall with their ears covered. Martín felt the explosion more strongly than he expected, but even despite that and the small threads of dust that were pouring from the ceiling in spots, the building held. When they stepped back in, wearing the masks that Andrés didn’t neglect to bring despite the fact that Martín had forgotten to mention them, they were relieved to see that the hole they made was large and stable enough to allow them through.

It was paintings. Dozens and dozens of paintings, which Andrés perused, one by one, then picked a select few and handed them to Sergio. They took seven of them, loading them carefully in the trunk of Andrés’ car, then Sergio went back inside to get into his gear and erase all traces of them.

Now that he was officially their partner in crime, Andrés and Sergio told him the whole plan - contingencies and all - and there were _a lot_ of contingencies. So the good thing about it was that they were every bit as good as they said they were. 

The bad thing was— well, everything else.

Martín’s heart races long after they leave the little village. He’s impossibly wired, and it takes him a while until he’s able to consciously realize what he’s done. The realization sets in suddenly and all the relief he’s previously felt washes away, leaving behind only anger.

“I can’t believe we did that. I can’t believe you made me do that!”

“Martín, I didn’t make you do anything that you didn’t willingly do yourself.”

“I still can’t believe you basically _recruited_ me from my job to pull a heist with you! What if I said no?”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I got to know you. All our conversations. Our dinners. I knew our little endeavor would be right up your alley, and I already knew you weren’t the kind of guy who cared much for the rules. Or the law. Or the rich, as a matter of fact. See, Sergio _does_ tell me a hell of a lot of things.”

All this time, Martín thought he was just hitting on Sergio - turns out, the guy was bleeding him for information.

Thing was, whatever he did, it was done. Marin would now have to think of the consequences. However, his mind was firmly set on one particular kind of consequences - the pecuniary ones.

“So my cut remains three hundred thousand euros?”

“Is that agreeable?”

It was more than agreeable, if Martín was honest. But there was still a small part of him—

“Unless,” he says, when Andrés turns to him briefly. He thinks that he’s not being greedy to ask, he’s being _business-like_. “Unless the value of what we got is way greater. Like— in the millions? Plural? I swear I know a couple of those paintings from art books.” 

Andrés laughs, softly. 

“We’ll discuss more when Sergio returns.”

He doesn’t comment until they reach an underground parking lot and they get out, taking the spoils with them to one of the apartments on the second floor. 

“Would you like a drink before Sergio joins us? The bar’s over there,” Andrés points and then excuses himself.

Martín pours himself a glass of the most expensive-looking scotch he sees in the bar and sits down, mulling over the events of the past couple of hours. It was barely past noon yet he already committed several crimes and there he was, quietly sipping scotch on the couch of some - by their own admission - rather proficient criminals.

Turns out his parents might have been right after all and he _will_ end up in prison. 

By the time Andrés walks in, wearing a completely different suit and having obviously combed his hair, Martín is quietly freaking out. His distress is quite obvious it seems, because Andrés immediately catches on to the shift in his mood. He sits on the couch right by his side.

“Are you okay?”

“I, uh. I might go to prison.”

“Martín,” Andrés says, soft but firm. “You’re not going to prison.”

“Please tell me this was all an elaborate farce. The house was yours. This is a prank; anything. I didn’t just blow up a hole in a centuries-old building and steal some priceless art.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but no. It was all quite real. And the art is definitely not priceless; I’ll know the exact price once I authenticate it, but my eye has bever deceived me.”

“That’s not— that wasn’t what I was worried about.”

“I know.” Andrés casually rests his hand on Martín knee, instantly short-circuiting the already jumbled mess of his brain. “You need to relax, alright? It’s going to be okay.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“This is what I _do,_ Martín. And I do it well.”

Martín swallows past the heavy knot in his throat. He has absolutely no reason to trust Andrés - actually, he has actual proof that he _shouldn’t_ trust him - and yet he does.

“That isn’t as reassuring as you might think, just so you know.”

“It’s going to be alright,” he repeats. 

“You lied to me.”

“I did, yes, and I apologize. You see, this isn’t exactly the kind of function one could have cordially invited you to. We had to have a… pretense, if you will.”

“So the whole family business thing was a lie, right?”

“That is correct, yes.” 

“What about the rest? At the bookstore. You said you came by before you talked to Sergio about this. Was that part a lie as well?” And sure, there were other things that were more immediately important, but his mind settles on that.

“No, Martín, that part really did come up serendipitously. I was telling him about the bookstore and it turned out that Sergio knew you. Actually, it was him who later mentioned that you had the particular set of skills we needed, and since it was nothing short of kismet that we both knew you, it was only natural to ask.”

“But you didn’t ask, did you? Certainly not outright.”

“Would you have said yes if I had?”

_Yes_ , Martín thinks. Judging by where he currently was and what he had just done, it was pretty obvious that he’d blindly say yes to just about anything Andrés asked - and Andrés knew it.

“Probably.”

“See, _probably_ just isn’t something I was comfortable with.”

Sergio comes back way sooner than Martín anticipated - looking calm, proper, and every bit the librarian that Martín remembered. And he stayed that way, awkwardly smiling at them both, until Andrés got up to fix him a drink.

“Martín here would like to negotiate his share.”

“What do you mean? Your share is more than fair.”

“How so? You don’t even know the value of those paintings.”

Sergio frowns when he looks at Andrés, a muted fury in his eyes when he takes the offered glass from Andrés. He places it on the counter beside him without as much as looking at it, then turns back to Martín.

“If we take into consideration the research and planning work that Andrés and I have put in, I think an equal split is unfair. You just came in and blew a hole in the wall. You were the muscle, we were the brain. Nobody said this would be an even split.”

“I seem to remember that _you_ were the muscle, and I was the brain that made sure the whole building didn’t come down on our heads.”

“No, you were the crude power, we were the ones that found the place, scoped it, made sure we weren’t interrupted, made sure none of this can come back to us, and - I’m sure you aren’t actually aware of just how difficult this part is - we’re the ones who will place the art with a discerning collector. Arguably, the most dangerous part of it all. I think your three hundred thousand are more than fair.”

“And I politely disagree,” Martín said, not at all politely. “You couldn’t have done this without me.”

“Please don’t delude yourself into thinking—”

“Sergio, that’s enough.” To his credit, Sergio backs down. Andrés looks back at Martín, smiling a mischievous smile. “Tell you what. We have another project coming up in a couple of weeks. Join us then, and you’ll get… let’s say an additional ten percent from his job, plus an even share of what we make in the next one. Deal?”

“If we are going to do anything like this again,” Martín says, “ _if!_ “ He makes sure to look at Sergio while he’s talking. “You guys need to step up your game. Sergio, you say you were the mastermind behind this?”

“Well, technically we both were.”

“That’s somehow even worse.”

“What do you mean,” asks Sergio, flicking his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Gone was the meekness in him, that mousey air that Martín used to find so enticing. The more time Martín spent with him, the more he saw that all for what it was - just a facade. “You know _nothing_ about the planning that went into this job. The contacts we have. The resources. When we say that the police won’t find us? We _know_ they won’t.”

“I hope you’re right, but consider this— What about Mirko?"

An unnatural stillness settles in the room and both men are looking at him with something between bewilderment and worry. 

"Your coworker?"

"My best friend. My roommate."

"What about him?"

"He knows about this."

"That sounds a lot like a 'you' problem," says Sergio, with a little bit more bite than Martín expected of him.

"We just committed a bunch of crimes together; I think a lot of the problems that stem from that are 'our' problems now."

"Your inability to keep your mouth shut reflects more on _you_ than on our ability to plan."

"You'd think that, but how was I supposed to know that I wasn’t supposed to talk about it?”

"I didn't think you'd go brag about—"

"There was no bragging - we're friends. We _talk_. Do you even know what friends are?"

"Okay,” cuts in Andrés. “What's done is done. We need to contain it."

"Contain it?" 

"You need an alternate version of today's events to tell to Mirko."

Well, that was a small rush of relief. Martín was aware of Andrés' criminal side for only a couple of hours and may have been a little - _apprehensive_ about what 'containing' could mean in the context.

"Well, I have an idea," says Martín, smiling brightly. 

It’s late afternoon when Martín gets back to their apartment, the buzz of the alcohol having long dulled. The adrenaline was gone too, as were most of his nerves. Sergio and Andrés _did_ know what they were doing, and they were ultimately right - Martín was into it. He was so very into it, finding it unnaturally easy to fall into the reality that he was now a legitimate criminal - and that he’ll continue to be one.

He said yes to their question - asked outright and with all the information now - and he would join them in their next heist. Just as they’d said yes to Martín’s proposal on how to treat ‘the problem with Mirko’, as Sergio had put it. 

Mirko greets Martín from the kitchen, and Martín joins him there as soon as he takes off his boots and jacket. Judging by the piles of assorted vegetables on the counter, Mirko is just setting up to start making dinner.

"So how was your little field trip?" Asks Mirko, smiling with a lot of meaning.

"Fine. It was fine."

"Does the building still stand?"

"There was no building. I mean, there was and yes, it's still standing. The only damage we did was to a bed frame, and maybe the wall."

Mirko _gasped_. 

“Well, that’s unexpected.” 

Martín just shrugs and goes to pick at some of the carrots. "Is it, really?"

"So… it was all a pretense? He really did just want to get into your pants?"

"Yep."

"That has got to be the most convoluted way to pick up guys that I've ever heard of."

"Convoluted? Have I _told_ you the name of the paper he's working on?"

"Fair enough. Pretentious asshole then.” Mirko turns around, picking the knife back up. He was working on something with an alarming amount of vegetables, which Martín was secretly thankful for. Even through college, Mirko had made sure that they’d die of starvation first before dying of scurvy. He swats at Martín’s hand when he tries to steal yet another carrot. “Anything worth mentioning?"

"Just that I'll see him again."

"Okay," said Mirko, looking at him with— suspicion? "I am making a note of the fact that you're not telling me any details, which usually means—"

"It means nothing."

"Come on. You put out on the _third_ date. _And_ you're seeing him again. You _like him_."

"I don't. Well okay, fine, I do." He did, there was no reason to lie.

About that part, at least.

Mirko sing-songs, teasingly, “Martín’s got a boyfriend!” Then, warmly, “That’s good, I’m really happy for you. You know I’m always here for you, hermano, if you ever feel the need to bitch about his pretentiousness.”

Martín puffs a laugh. “Thanks, I just might.”

“So— When are you seeing him again?”

Without skipping a beat, Martín says, “Tomorrow night.”

Mirko turns, wiggling his eyebrows. His hands don’t stop chopping, even though he’s not even looking at what he’s doing, all sure and precise in his motions. 

“Where does he plan to coop you up this time?”

“I’m not telling you,” Martín objects, mostly because he really didn’t want to involve Mirko any further than he already had. 

They’re eating and Mirko is telling him about one of his own potential conquests, and Martin is trying really hard to pay attention. The day had turned out infinitely more interesting that fruitful than he had anticipated - Martín had gained some more hands-on experience with explosives, he’s gotten three hundred thousand euros (which he’ll have to stash someplace) _and_ a fake-boyfriend. All things considered, a pretty good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang on to your seats, this is going to be a _wild_ ride!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can a not!date end not!badly?

The bookstore was having a bad case of the Tuesday mornings - not a customer for hours, not a single phone call. It was one of those rare moments in which they managed to transcend boredom into a state of raw creativity and feeling which brought out the very best in them. (Like that time when he and Mirko waltzed between the shelves, leaving Martin breathless with laughter and filling him with enough energy to sustain him for a week; Martín often thought of that morning and how well it painted the bond between the two of them.)

Martín’s shelving some new Stephen King titles, cursing inwardly the immutable nature of the laws of physics. See, shelf space was finite, while the influx of new titles was seemingly endless, and that was a problem he now faced daily. Martín especially hated series of books that had both a high number of volumes _and_ a high number of pages. He firmly believed that any author that deemed it necessary to take that much space, with books whose spines were wider than the cover, really needed to spend some time trying to fit their own magnum opus on one shelf. That’s where he was, mentally, when Mirko’s voice calls from the far end of the corridor.

“Hey Martín, you ready?”

Turns out, Martín wasn’t.

With his arms raised above his head, Mirko took a few running steps then dropped to his knees and slid just like that, rockstar-like, along the newly polished floors. Martín tracked him, left to right, as he glid majestically past him, playing a riff on an imaginary guitar.

It was a silly thing, Mirko was laughing heartily when he stops close to the last bookshelf, and Martín found himself laughing too. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that; it was _so_ worth it. Wanna try?”

Before Martín has a chance to even say that yes, of course he wants to try, a customer walks in. Well, not exactly a customer - it’s Martin’s (fake) boyfriend. 

What an absolute shock and delight it was for him that the brothers agreed to go along with his hair-brained plan. It fit quite nicely with his alternate explanation for the heist, and gave them a good - an _d legal_ \- reason to see each other again.

Mirko wiggled his eyebrows at Martín as soon as he laid eyes on the visitor, and it suddenly dawned on Martín that— he’ll have to greet Andrés _properly_. Especially since they had an audience, as much as the audience tried to pretend that they weren’t peeking. So he approached Andrés, confident and way too calm, tilted his head and Andrés, as if on reflex, leaned over and kissed him. 

On the lips.

Which was obviously what he was going for, but actually having it happen? Martín’s breath caught in his throat for that split-second when their lips pressed, soft and electric. His skin was tingling where they touched, and it was _nothing_. A fake-kiss from a fake-boyfriend, he knew it, and yet he was maybe a bit too pleased with how things were turning up.

They had dinner two nights prior - no kisses (no audience), decidedly not a date. It was enough of a not-date that Sergio was there too, and they discussed their upcoming heist. It wouldn’t be a big job, like the vineyard one; they were only supposed to retrieve a hard drive from a safe inside a mostly unguarded building. A fairly simple job, and the brothers seemed to be quite ahead in their planning. Martín wouldn’t even have to play to his strengths - either engineering or just blowing things up - but he wouldn’t need any special training either. But they still had a couple of weeks until then, so Martín was surprised to see Andrés show up like that.

Andrés, who didn’t seem at all shaken by the kiss. He was smiling, greeted Mirko, then pulled Martín outside for a few minutes. Which was great, Martín could definitely use a break - he pulled out a cigarette and leaned into Andrés’ cupped hands to light it, shielded from the wind.

“Have you seen the Prado Museum before?” Andrés asks, taking his hands away. 

“You’re kidding, right?” When Andrés doesn’t make the slightest move to answer, Martín recoils back, offended. “Of course I’ve been to the Prado, what kind of an uncultured animal do you think I am?”

Andrés doesn't respond to his outrage, and continues. “Would you be opposed to seeing it again? It’s _La Noche de los Museos_ \- the museum is open until 1 AM.”

“I know.”

“Did you have plans to go anywhere _else_ tonight?”

“No, because if I want to see something, I’ll pick one of the other 364 days of the year. I don’t really like crowds, I prefer to go to museums when I can just walk in and look at things for as long as I feel like. Plus,” he speaks through white clouds of smoke, “why are we going to the museum? Do you really think I need a refresher on European Art?”

Andrés smiles. “No. But it’s a lesson of a different kind that I had in mind.” 

So much promise in so few words - Martín was intrigued. “You’re not going to tell me now, are you?”

“What fun would that be. Pick you up at eight?”

The lines for the Prado were long, just as Martín feared, but time took a whole new dimension when Andrés spoke. His vast knowledge came out with sincere passion, and not one tale that he told, no matter whether Martín already knew it or not, absolutely reeled him in. There was something about Andrés that fascinated Martín, the way he spoke, the way he carried himself with a poise that was almost unfair for someone his age - he was, what? 26? A mere four years older than Martín but still felt - and looked - undeniably more adult. 

For a second, Martín had forgotten that they weren’t on an actual date. This was a lesson (apparently).

“So,” Martín cuts the silence that eventually fell between them when the art stole Andrés’ attention. “You said something about a lesson? Was that it?”

“No. But I hope it was enjoyable and informative nonetheless. I’m sorry, art always turns me into quite the professor - you were right to catch onto that when you did.”

“Hah. And it was, yes.” _What about the lesson_ , he wants to ask again, more clearly this time, because he demonstrably had very little impulse control and did not like being teased.

“Good,” Andrés concludes absolutely nothing, then joins the crowds that pool to the adjacent room - the Bosch room. It was far too crowded for Martín’s liking; he could barely see anything. He was of a perfectly good height, and crowds still had this way of making him feel _small_. There, in the very center of the room, surrounded by a thick barricade of onlookers, towered the triptych - the one that managed to steal so many hours from Martín in all his previous visits. _The Garden of Earthly Delights._ He’d love to see it again, still; there was always a new detail that popped out to him, new ways in which he managed to connect the imagery. The crowds obviously shared his curiosity for the piece since he never quite made it to the front row, and always felt pressured to move on, to allow others the opportunity to take in the masterpiece. 

He’s energized and a bit turned inside-out too, like he always is around that painting, but when he realizes that that’s as best as they can do, he turns around to Andrés, lifting one eyebrow in a quiet, ‘shall we?’

They make their way to the other paintings in the room that unfairly did not get as much attention, and then step out of the room. Two paintings in, Andrés takes his hand and pulls him aside. People walk past them, uncaring of their presence.

“Here’s the test. In the Bosch room - how many cameras and guards were there, and where.”

Martín blinks a couple of times. 

“Okay.” He frowns, trying to remember. “Three cameras behind the triptych, three others to the sides, four on the wall behind. I saw— three guards? Two by the painting, another one by the entrance we came in.”

“The South one.”

“Sure, the South one,” Martín agrees because— it was probably that, it’s not like he consciously thinks of his world in terms of cardinal points. But he suspects that he will, from now on.

“You missed the attendants.”

“You said guards.”

“I did, but museum attendants are someone you should definitely look out for, too.”

“Are we—” Martín looks around, feeling suddenly self-conscious, leaning closer to Andrés in a whisper. “Are we here to steal something? The place is swarming with people! Please tell me you’re not thinking of stealing—”

“No, we’re not stealing anything. I just wanted to assess your eye, so to speak.”

“How did I do?”

“Just as well as I thought you would.”

Andrés gives him a lopsided smile and Martin, once more, feels like he’s melting. He’s gotten so swept up by Andrés’ charm, that up until that impromptu test, he almost forgot that they weren’t there for fun. This wasn’t a date.

What was he thinking? Of course it wasn’t a date. They weren’t dating - that was just an excuse for Mirko, who tragically wasn’t there. Martín tries to keep the disappointment from his voice when he tries to get the conversation going again.

“How did your other art endeavors go?” He’s turning to move, and Andrés follows him.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Your discerning collectors?”

“Oh. It's a work in progress. Don't tell me you blew through the money already - it hasn’t even been a week!”

“Didn't even touch it. I was just curious.” 

It was part curiosity, part self-preservation. Until the art was sold - or maybe even some time after that, too - Martín still felt like he was in a vulnerable place, like the police would burst in at any moment and arrest him.

“We have a couple of solid leads. Sergio’s doing the negotiations, I’ll keep you updated.”

“Good.” 

They walk the other rooms and corridors in relative silence, Andrés telling him random stories that brought more context to the art on the walls. All in all, Martín feels like he’s seen a face of the Prado that he’s never seen before - and he doesn’t just mean the cameras, that he now takes immediate notice of.

“Have you ever,” Martín nods towards one of the paintings, raising his eyes in what he hoped was evocative enough for what he wanted to say. It wasn’t.

“Have I ever what?”

“You know… ‘gotten’ one of these from a museum?”

“Oh. Not from somewhere like this, but yes.”

“Wow, you’ve got to tell me all about it. Was it a painting?”

“Yes.”

“Do I know it?”

“Doubtful, it was something with more of a sentimental value rather than monetary.”

“Now I’m intrigued.”

“Late dinner somewhere?”

Martín’s starving - he did jump straight from work into an exhausting museum visit, so he could definitely eat. But he was also two days before his next paycheck - the recent illicit gains notwithstanding - so he was light on cash.

“How about some appropriately-timed drinks instead?”

“Of course. I know just the place.”

Martín laughs.

“Yeah, no, It’s my turn to pick.”

He chose a bar downtown, not quite seedy but one where Andrés, in his impeccable suit, looked just as out of place. As soon as they stepped in, Martín regretted his choice - it wa _s loud_. Not something he usually minded, but this time he was actually interested in talking with the guy he brought along.

They settle at the bar, and Martín has second thoughts about his choice of cocktail as soon as Andrés orders his scotch. _Damn_. Oh well, his drink has character too, just— a _different_ kind.

It wasn’t as loud at the bar, but he still has to lean in and sort of yell at Andrés for him to hear.

“How did you get into this?”

Andrés smiles in his glass, then leans over.

“I guess you could say that it was in my blood. What about you?”

“How did I get into bookselling?” Andrés nods.

“I came to Madrid for university, then I quickly realized that booze wasn’t free.” In a nutshell, that was it. He didn’t mention the fact that he didn’t want to be a financial burden on his family, that he used to do odd jobs before he finally found the bookstore. It was Mirko, actually, that got him his in. They met at university, had their fling, became roommates, then Mirko’s coworker at the bookstore unexpectedly quit one day and Martín was more than ready to take his place. He interviewed well, managed to paint himself as more educated and patient than he was, and he got the job on the spot. 

“What about your other hobbies?”

“You’d better not mean engineering, because that’s more than a hobby to me.”

“No, I mean your more hands-on approach to certain aspects of your work.”

“You mean blowing shit up?” Martín is too buzzed to care than anyone may have heard him. He doesn’t care, just as he suspects that nobody in that place would care if they heard him, either. Andrés nods. “I’ve always liked to experiment. This time, I guess, I really knew what I was doing. Or, well, I knew a bit more than I did when I was a child.”

“Do you like it?”

Martín has to think, but only because he was finally beginning to feel the alcohol run through him. He doesn’t normally need to think about it, it’s an easy answer. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” And, before he can stop himself, he continues to spill what’s on his mind, leaning even closer. “It’s a rush, to have that much power. And it’s not just the idea of destruction, which I have to admit, I hate how much I love; it’s the feeling of control over something so volatile, so powerful. So I really like it, yeah.”

Andrés nods sagely, looking at his almost empty glass.

“Passion is at the heart of growth,” he says, when Martín leans close enough to hear him repeat it. They are so close now, brushing shoulders, but Andrés seems unaffected by the touch. Martín isn’t, he feels electrified by the small point of contact, and soon pinpricks of heat burst in his cheeks. 

“Wanna dance?” He asks, absolutely out of nowhere, basically ignoring the possibly deep thing that Andrés had just said. He asked because “Guantanamera” was on, and the crowd around them went absolutely wild, raising their glasses and singing along loudly. 

They don’t dance as such, more like sway with their own glasses held high, and then Andrés slips his hand around Martín’s waist as he pulls him in, hip to hip, as he’s singing his heart out. Good thing the song lived in Martín’s head for so long that he could sing it on auto-pilot, since his mind was bursting with little glitches caused by the fact that he’d kissed Andrés (fake-kissed, but kissed nonetheless), they spent the evening together in a museum (for whatever test, but still, a very date-like thing to do), had a few drinks together and were currently _touching_. And the way his mind decided to take all of that was, _fake date - real boner._ Crude, sure, but it’s the best he could do given his boozy circumstances. Andrés seemed to have that effect on him. Andrés _in his arms?_ All the more so.

When the song is over and everyone is whooping and applauding, Martín feels a wave of disappointment that alcohol should really not allow through. Andrés isn’t smiling anymore, he seems almost glum when he turns back to the bar, not looking at Martín. Like he’s avoiding him. Like he’s just made a mistake. 

But they _have_ kissed, and Martín enjoyed it. They _did_ go to the museum together, then went out to drinks - which Martín enjoyed more than any of his _actual_ dates. It was fake on the outside but so honest within - for Martín, at least. Andrés was still avoiding his gaze, but Martín couldn’t let the evening end like that.

“Round of shots before we go?”

Martín’s not truly feeling the effect of the shot until they’re in the lobby of his building, where Andrés walked him - not in a romantic way, but in a ‘here’s how feet work’ kind of way. Which he became hyper-aware of when Andrés smiled at and flirted with just about every woman that as much as looked at him. (and they _looked_ ) Martín almost accepted it as a sad reality of life, that Andrés was just not into him like that, but then his hand gently settles against his lower back, and everything gets all fuzzy around the edges again.

They’re waiting for the elevator, and Martín feels himself getting suddenly _angry_. In their relationship that wasn’t, Andrés sent signals and he didn’t. The elevator slides down slowly, a bright ray of light painting them in color from head to toes. Martín pulls at the heavy door with all his might and as soon as he’s opened it, Andrés steps in, like Martín had done all that work just for him; he was so entitled, so— Martín is _angry._ He can’t say why, but he is.

That little gesture that he was definitely reading too much into still pushes him into _belligerent_ levels of drunk, which would be fine, except for the fact that Andrés’ closeness brought on the horny drunk in Martín, too. So he’s not thinking clearly when he steps in the elevator right after Andrés, and before the door even fully falls shut, he’s pushing him against the mirror on the back wall. It’s a step, barely two. There’s fire in his eyes and no thoughts in his head when he’s crowding a surprised Andrés back, almost getting up on his toes in an irrational need to loom, to intimidate. 

“What’s your game?”

“Martín—”

Martín’s way past discourse - even if, sure, he _did_ just ask a question. It makes no sense to him and he, in turn, makes no sense either.

“What is this.”

“Martín, I—”

He really wants to know what Andrés isn’t saying, what he keeps starting but not getting out. 

“What.”

His arms are pushing at Andrés’ chest and he gets his face closer, close enough that he can smell the alcohol on his own breath when he asks again, “What?”

“I can’t do this, Martín.”

 _Oh_. 

“We have a rule, Sergio and I. About doing this. No personal relationships.”

 _Oh._ Martín thinks. There’s rules.

Fuck his rules.

“Since when do you care about rules?” He asks because that refusal? Andrés didn’t say that he didn’t want it, just that he couldn’t. And honestly, fuck that. He’s too drunk to care, so he manages just enough calm to pry his hands free from Andrés’ shirt where they were curled. He doesn’t push away, he just lays his hands flat on the mirror on either side of Andrés’ face. With a calm sense of determination, he presses right against the body in front of him, getting his mouth right by Andrés’ ear. “Huh? You don’t seem like the type of guy who plays by any rules.” 

And he _grinds_. He freezes when he feels, right against his hardening cock, Andrés’ own erection. He can see his own eyes in the mirror, widening with the realization, and he has to look at Andrés, to see how it affects _him_. 

“I care—” Andrés is breathing hard now, equally affected. “I care about—”

The elevator creaks, making them both jolt in surprise, then starts ascending. 

“Did you press the button?” Martín turns back to look at the panel - sure enough, neither of them had, and somebody else must have called the elevator. Martín pushes away from Andrés, cursing. 

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” 

It didn’t feel like it was okay, and Martín had no idea what he was doing, or why. He had to get out, and luckily was soon able to - as soon as the elevator stops, he opens the door, half-heartedly greets his neighbor then goes up the stairs to his own floor.

For a second, he thinks - hopes? - that Andrés might come out after him, or take the elevator back up to find him, but— he doesn’t. He can hear the elevator door fall shut on the ground floor, then the big doors on the entrance lock behind him. He stops on the last step, just outside his own place, and the heavy thud resonates in his chest.

He’s fucked up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was *so* not the chapter that I had ready. I re-wrote it all from scratch because these guys got themselves to a point that I could simply not salvage - or at least, not so early in the game.
> 
> Also, any resemblance to real people and real situations is purely coincidental and all the bookstore rants definitely don't come from years of frustration. XD


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the pendulum that is this fic swings back into _“dat bookstore life”_ territory. What, you didn't think it would all be explosions and heists, did you?   
> (in other news, heisting to resume shortly XD)

Martín woke up and regretted it the second he opened his eyes. The blinds were open, light spilling in harshly, making him wince in pain. It was his fault for getting drinks with barely anything in his stomach - he was willing to accept the fallout from that, but the rest… He remembered the rest. He sort of didn’t want to, not so early in the day, but he did remember. The elevator. Andrés trembling under his palms, how hard he was, _ngh—_ And Martín’s fucked that up, somehow.

(Alcohol, that’s how. Alcohol and thinking with his dick.)

He groans when he sits up, resting on the side of his bed with his head buried in his hands. Existence is pain. At some point before going to bed, he seems to have gotten undressed and put on a pair of sweatpants - inside out, but that was irrelevant. The clock says 7 AM - so he still has plenty of time to shower and to have some sort of breakfast too, if he asks Mirko nicely. So he gets up, feeling soreness in all his muscles, and trudges to Mirko’s room, where he opens the door without even knocking.

The door hits something - someone - and there’s a sharp curse from the other side. Not in Mirko’s voice. _Oh shit._ Martín does the only thing that he can think of and apologizes before turning around and hurrying to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He sits down to pee because god, standing up - definitely not something he can handle at the moment. He contemplates whether he has anything to puke, decides that he doesn’t, and is about to step in the shower when he remembers - there’s three of them in that tiny apartment, and he can’t be the only one who needs to use the room. The shower can wait. 

He washes his face with icy cold water, brushes his teeth, and walks straight to the kitchen, where he finds Mirko and the twinkiest-looking twink that he’s ever laid eyes on sitting at the table.

“Uh, morning. Sorry about before, I hope I didn’t—” He smiles, tight-lipped and embarrassed, but the guy starts laughing, polite and nice and absolutely gorgeous.

“It’s fine, no worries. I’m Dario. You must be Martín, Mirko’s told me about you.”

“Oh?”

“I only told him you weren’t coming home last night - bit of a surprise to hear you stumble in so early,” Mirko said. “What happened? I expected you to spend the night.”

“Presumptuous.”

Mirko just laughed. “Anyone up for some quick french bread before we go? Also, we should maybe make a bathroom rota; Dario, will you go first? I’ll be done with breakfast by the time you finish.”

“Sure,” the pretty guy says, leaning over to kiss Mirko, then heads for the bathroom.

It’s just the two of them left in the kitchen, and Mirko fills a glass of water that he then slides over in front of Martín before turning to get some eggs from the fridge.

“So. Tell me what happened.”

“I got drunk.”

“I mean, that much is obvious. And your writer guy—”

“He has a name, you know? Andrés.”

“Andrés,” Mirko corrects. “He didn’t want to take advantage of you or what?”

“Nah, I remembered it was still a work night. Our place is closer to the bookstore.”

“Mhmm. Cabs are a thing, you know.”

“Just drop it, okay?”

Unsurprisingly, Mirko doesn’t.

“Look, you know you can talk to me if something’s wrong. Did you guys have a fight or something?”

_Or something._ Martín buries his head in his palms. He’s never really lied to Mirko, and hates every single time that he’s found himself having to do it. This whole thing with Andrés, he fell into it _so_ easily. Zero thinking on his part - which, to be fair, it wouldn’t be so out of character for him, but this thing? It seemed to have so many ramifications. Like possibly going to prison. Or lying to Mirko - which he somehow hates more than the idea of prison. So he deflects.

“So, Dario. That’s new.”

“Yeah,” Mirko laughs, dipping the bread into the egg mix then dropping it into the sizzling pan. “You’re not the only one who went out last night. Except I actually got to score.”

“He’s… really fucking pretty.” 

Mirko had a type, and it was precisely Dario. People looked at them funny, but Martín knew him, knew what a beautiful and loving person he was, so it made sense. (Plus, the sex part? He was a _titan_.) Sometimes, Martín sort of wondered why they hooked up when they did, he definitely wasn’t as handsome as Mirko’s usual boyfriends or flings, so he had to wonder what Mirko saw in him.

Other times, he wonders why they were both so sure that it would never work out. 

And on very rare occasions, he wishes that it did.

Mirko turns from the stove, whispering loudly, but still hidden by the sound of the running shower.

“He _is_ pretty, isn’t he? But gods, the guy hasn’t read _one_ book since he got out of university - and, judging by the conversations we’ve attempted to have, he wasn’t big on reading before that either.” The next batch of french bread is ready, and Mirko passes it to Martín before dropping more bread into the pan. “ _So_ pretty though. No wonder we ended up in bed so quickly, there wasn’t much else to do. Plus, we found a much better use for that lovely mouth of his.”

They cut the conversation short when Dario, the pretty, pretty boy steps out of the bathroom, fresh and smiling and charming enough that Martín forgets himself staring for maybe a second too long. Mirko takes off his apron and starts moving before Martín even has a chance to remember that he had to shower too.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, right as he passes Dario, who laughs like it was an in-joke that Martín both desperately wanted to hear, and desperately didn’t. 

“There’s french toast,” Martín points to the plate opposite his own as he’s getting up. He takes the last half of his slice as he leaves for his room. “I’m gonna get ready, you should probably—” he makes a vague gesture.

He doesn’t want to be late to open the bookstore, just like he doesn’t want to spend more time near another handsome guy that he can’t have.

“Hiding from customers again?”

Martín jolts awake. He’d been staring at the tall shelf for a few long minutes, and almost forgot why he was there in the first place.

“Hmm? No. This lady wouldn’t believe me when I told her that we really _don’t_ currently have the best-seller du jour, precisely because of the fact that _it sold best_. So yeah, I told her I’d look in the back. Is she still out there?”

“I think so. Move over, I’m looking for another copy of that Piranesi set.”

“What’s wrong with the ones on the shelf?”

“I don’t know, they must have been tainted by the looks of others. Who cares, I just want to sell this book and maybe do the reception of this mountain of boxes, because _someone’s_ colleague has been useless all day. I wouldn’t be surprised if your best-seller wasn’t already in one of those boxes.” 

“Sorry about that, I’ll do it.”

“If you need time away from people, sure. Actually, I’m not sure I want you around people either.” Mirko puts back the stack of books and leaves the back room with the Piranesi tome under his arm. He stops in the doorway, and turns back. “What’s up with you, man? Everything alright? You’ve not been yourself today, it’s like I had a bookstore ghost following me around glumly.”

“Nah, I’m alright. I have a raging hangover so the dimness of this place is really calming.”

“Fine. Just— don’t just loiter, start on reception. I’ll tell your lady that we really, honestly, pinky-swear we don’t have the book, alright?”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Martín’s worked in that bookstore for almost two years by that point. He’d been to plenty of other interviews, and before every one of them Mirko wished him good luck, and he meant it. And every single one of them, Martín failed. Not for any real fault of his, just for his lack of ‘relevant experience in the field’ - which no one was willing to let him actually get. It was frustrating. 

He didn’t hate the bookstore, quite the opposite. If it was up to him, he’d really see himself do it for as long as he was able to lug the giant metal ladder around, but he’d never hear the end of it from his parents. Except— for all intents and purposes, he was _rich_. He could really continue to do this, guiltlessly, since his after-hours activities would provide him with the means to live quite comfortably.

If he didn’t go to prison first. And if he was still part of that odd little band of criminals. He doesn’t know if what happened the previous night would change anything. He’d been foolish. Drunk, true, but so fucking _reckless_. That’s not how this needed to happen.

The door to the back room slides open, letting in a bit of sunlight. Martín closes one eye, looking at Mirko’s backlit figure. 

“Your boyf— _Andrés_ is here for you. I said I didn’t know if you were in and that I’d have to look in the back.”

“And you have the gall to call _me_ rude to the customers.”

“Well, he’s not really a customer.”

Martín squeezes past him and back into the bookstore, with Mirko following him. Andrés is waiting by the new titles shelf, flipping through a book, and Martín’s stomach clenches when he realizes that they’re probably going to _talk about it_. About the elevator thing. He takes a deep breath and says hi. No kisses this time, neither of them makes a move to do so. Andrés just closes the book and puts it back on the shelf.

“We need to talk.”

The magic of those words was potent enough to have Mirko turn right on his heels, taking the pile of books right back to where he took them from. Martín turns around and calls for him.

“I’m stepping outside for a bit, okay? You man the till.”

“Sure, brother,” Mirko says from the far and of the bookstore, where the sheer force of the _‘we need to talk_ ’ sent him.

He doesn’t have his cigarettes with him, Martín realizes after he pointlessly pats his pockets a couple of times. He sighs. 

“Look, I’m sorry about last night—”

“No.” Andrés cuts him short, and looks at him with a crease on his brow. “And we’re not having this conversation here. It’s only thirty minutes before closing time, can’t you get away earlier?”

“No,” Martín says. He lies. “There has to be both of us present to close the books.” Which, yeah, huge fucking lie, but how would Andrés know that.

“Oh. I’ll—” Martín really fucking hopes he won’t suggest waiting in the bookstore, because he was not ready for that. “I’ll wait for you at the cafe across the street, okay? Take your time.”

“Sure.” 

He turns around and steps inside, grateful that he didn’t have to be there anymore. For the first time since they’ve met, the air was awkward between them, strained and _wrong_. They blew up a wall together, stole classic art, and things between them just _flowed_. But now? 

It’s the longest thirty minutes of Martín’s life - August Tuesday mornings included - and he finds himself so close to breaking and telling Mirko everything. Mirko, who stops pressing once he understands that Martín really doesn’t want to talk about it. That it’s _bad_. Mirko, who’s been pulling Martín’s weight the whole day, and who was finishing up the last of the reports, patting Martín’s shoulder. 

“If you want to talk about it, you know that I’m here, right?”

And yeah, he does. Martín knows it too well. He turns to Mirko, to give him a hug, to get him closer in his arms and maybe to apologize a little, in his way. He’s got his head tucked in Mirko’s neck, his strong arms pulling him in, and Martín lets himself relax a tiny fraction. 

“Thank you. It’s fine.”

“I was about to meet Dario again tonight, but if you need me to stay home and get wasted with you for no particular reason, just tell me and I’ll cancel in a second.”

“No! No, just— you go have fun with pretty boy Dario. I’ll be fine.”

Martín’s been in that cafe before, a couple of times with Mirko and other friends right after work, but it’s usually the place where he brings his dates. The prices are good, the coffee is even better, and they even serve alcohol. So it should work for that evening as well.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Andrés says, looking up from his paper. _A paper_. He’s been in a bookstore and he still went to buy _a paper_. “Sit down. Do you want anything?”

_For this to be over,_ Martín thinks to himself. 

“I’ll have a look at the menu.” Not that he needed to, he just wanted to buy himself some more time. 

He doesn’t even have time to pick it up, that the waiter is already there.

“Oh, hey Martín. Your usual glass of red?”

Martín makes a face, because _way to blow his cover, Daniel_ , but eventually nods. “Thank you.”

He settles his hands on the table, then gathers them in his lap. He feels like he’s fidgeting, but all the while, Andrés is calmly drinking his coffee.

“I feel like I should explain myself,” Andrés says, daintily placing the cup back in the saucer.

Which is pretty weird, because it seemed like Martín should be the one with the explanations.

“Sergio and I, we’ve been doing this a while. We’ve learned a few things along the way, and this— Well. This was one of the most important lessons - personal relationships are dangerous. We do dangerous work, Martín. Mixing things up, creating unnecessary—“ He sighs and pushes the coffee aside. “We’ve been through this. There was someone in my life that I trusted, that I brought in, and they betrayed me. They betrayed us, and almost got us killed. We’ve learned our lesson. _I_ ’ve learned my lesson.” 

“Okay,” Martín says. He can feel his pulse in his ears, his heart is pounding and he really needs that wine, where _is_ Daniel? Because what he takes from what Andrés says, is that he’s not saying ‘no’ to Martín. Not to him, not exactly. If he’s just saying a ‘not now’— Martín can’t know for sure, but he’s determined to find out. “So are we still on for the next job?”

“Yes,” Andrés leans back in his chair, as if relieved. “Everything is set, we’ve tested the device several times and we’ve had no issues with it. The contact we have with the security firm feeds us current information about their schedule - everything is ready, it’s just a matter of the owners leaving for their planned holiday.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Daniel comes by with Martín’s wine, which he takes a good swig of before remembering his manners and raising it.

“Here’s to a successful plan!”

Andrés doesn’t toast, he smiles a tight-lipped smile and nods. 

“You should do some practice tests with the device. It’s really not a big deal, but it helps if you’re accustomed to it before you actually have to use it.”

“Uh, sure. When?”

“How about tonight? It’s a Friday evening so I’m sure Mirko expects you to stay out late.”

“Yeah,” Martín says non-commitally, because that meant Andrés wanted them to keep playing their fake thing. They were still on - well, not really ‘on’, but they’d still have to keep appearances. And, what’s better, Andrés didn’t seem at all opposed to it.

“So your place?”

“Yeah,” Andrés says, and Martín gets a little bit excited at the possibility to find himself in a room with Andrés again. Yeah, sure, there were rules. Either way, Martín really liked spending time with him, even if they were just - partners in crime.

And after their non-conversation (it was more of a mini monologue by Andrés, which Martín was used to by now) the atmosphere between them relaxed again. It felt as though nothing had changed.

“Can we order some takeout?” Martín asks, not wanting to repeat his past mistake of drinking on an empty stomach. 

“We don’t have to, Sergio’s cooking tonight.”

How wonderful. Sergio would be there too. 

Sergio was just as pleased to see Martín as Martín was to see him - which is to say, not at all. But he was nice, he did cook a splendid paella, and the wine they had with dinner relaxed them all. It turned out spectacularly well.

After they polish clean their plates, Andrés takes them into the living room and places a compact device in Martín’s hands. He takes it on reflex, and stares at the small box with its tiny button, then back up at Andrés.

“Is this it?”

“Yes. It attaches magnetically to the safe’s door - Sergio will show you the correct placement - and then all you have to do is press the button and wait until the LED turns green. You’ll hear the safe’s mechanism open at the same time. Want to give it a try?”

There’s a small safe right by the coffee table, and Martín realizes he wasn’t the least bit surprised when he first saw it as he walked in. He noticed it, but it just didn’t register as peculiar, like— Andrés was the kind of person for whom a safe appearing in the middle of their living room was no big deal. Martín kneels in front of the thing, then listens to Sergio explain where and how to attach the device, all in technical jargon that he seemed so sure of.

“Sergio, I had no idea you were such a nerd!”

Sergio looks at him, his eyebrows rising comically far above the big frames of his glasses. 

“I mean, sure, I did know you were an absolute nerd, but not an _IT_ nerd.”

“I am whatever kind of nerd I need to be in order to get the job done.” 

Fair enough.

“So, uh,” Martín says, when Sergio is in the small hallway, getting ready to go back to his place. “I should go too.”

“Only if you want to. If you need a pretense for Mirko, you can stay. The couch extends and is quite comfortable.”

The fucking couch, the _indignity_.

Not that it didn’t make sense, it really did, but he was just a simple man; he had hopes, okay? As unrealistic as they may have been.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“We can watch a movie before that, if it’s not too late.”

“Not at all. What movie did you have in mind?”

And that’s how Martín found out that Andrés had the most pretentious taste in movies (why was he even surprised), as he sat through _The Seventh Seal_ and tried really hard to not fall asleep.

He failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a not!Relationship, they managed to have a not!Talk! :D
> 
> (they're getting closer to the boinking, okay? I'm just as eager as everyone else is)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He does realize, but only when he gets back behind the till, that when Andrés had come by earlier, when they kissed— Mirko had been nowhere in sight.

Martín groans when he squints at the clock on the bedside table. It’s three in the morning, and he’d barely been asleep for one hour. It was pre-heist jitters - that _had_ to be a thing - and they were entirely justified by the fact that it was eighteen hours before the heist, when it should have been _two weeks_ and eighteen hours. Iit turns out that the Governor really had no scruples in sneaking another short vacation ahead of his regularly scheduled one, and took off earlier. And they decided to make their move then.

Andres and Sergio assured him that everything was already set and that they'd be able to move the timeline up with absolutely no issues, and from all that Martin could see, they weren't wrong. They had control of the CCTV, knew the guards’ schedule and patrol routes, _and_ had the device to unlock the safe. It would be a simple job, in and out in under seven minutes. Martin had the layout of the place memorized and he could easily operate the safe-cracking device while Andres kept lookout.

It seemed pretty straightforward - then why was Martín so nervous that it kept him up for _hours_?

When he wakes up again, the clock says four-thirty. This time, Martín actually gets up and goes to the kitchen to drink some cold water, makes a small detour to the bathroom, then jumps right back under the covers, hoping he’d magically hit the reset button on his sleep. He had, except he found himself flung right back into the dream he’d just woken up from.

This time, when he and Andrés break in, the house is teeming with people, and they’re having a fancy black-tie event. One second they’re downstairs, mixing with the guests, the next they’re in the first floor hallway, right outside the governor’s office. Andrés is the lookout, and Martín is just about to open the door when suddenly there’s the sound of voices approaching. It’s getting louder, he can make out words, hear laughter, and when he looks at Andrés— Andrés grabs his shoulders, flips them around in a tight little circle, then presses Martín flat against the wall. They’re nose to nose, breathing heavy, and the footsteps are getting closer, and so are their lips, and— 

Mirko was nudging him awake.

“Wow, you’re really out of it. This is your second snooze. I had to get out of the shower, your alarm was getting on my nerves. Get up, we’re going to be late.”

  


Three hours into his shift, Martín feels like he’s dying. He feels like he’s too young to be this debilitated by a night of lost sleep, but there he is - not at all hungover but feeling close enough to it that he’s almost swearing off drinking entirely. The only good thing was that his exhaustion was heavy enough to overpower any ability to feel nervous, and when Andrés walks in, Martín can’t even smile back.

"Hey." 

Andres looks positively _radiant_. In contrast, Martin feels like he's been dragged by his hair through a landfill. He finds it in him to smile, then leans forward for a kiss and Andres kisses him just like that, no hesitation, no strain - just a sweet peck on the lips and softness in his eyes.

"How are you?"

"I've only slept five hours last night - and they were non-consecutive. And I still have," Martin checks his watch, "five hours left from this shift. Do you think I can sleep in the car on the way there?"

“Do you think you’ll be _able_ to sleep on the way there?”

Martín ponders.

“Fair enough.”

“Why didn’t you sleep? Partying on a school night?”

“Not at all, but it turns out that going into a heist is a lot more stressful when you know that you’re doing it.”

"Why didn't you call me?"

Martín shrugs. He’s never even considered it.

"Are you nervous about tonight?"

"Of course.” Then, when Martín’s face immediately betrays the downpour of nervousness, he continues. “I'm _confident_ in our work and our abilities, but not being nervous about it would be downright reckless."

"...but it's still going to be fine, right?"

"I'm nervous, not worried. Can I steal you for lunch?"

Martin raises his eyebrows.

"I'd invite Mirko too, but it would severely cut into our conversation topics. I really think you need to relax, to get properly centered for tonight."

They go to a restaurant not far from the bookstore, where they have an immensely satisfying pizza that seems to have restorative powers, and Andres talks almost the whole time. They barely discuss the heist; in fact Andrés takes him on one of his passionate lectures - this time on the morality of art - and the only thing that Martín ends up regretting is the fact that they separate before getting back to the bookstore, so he doesn’t get his goodbye kiss.

He does realize, but only when he gets back behind the till, that when Andrés had come by earlier, when they kissed— Mirko had been nowhere in sight.

  


Andrés was right, sleep would have been impossible on the drive two cities over to the governor’s residence. Andrés calmly walks him through the plan once more: Sergio would cut and loop the CCTV feed, but since they knew the route and schedule of the guards, they weren’t going in completely blind. The building plans were memorized down to an inch, the timeline was set to the second. Nothing was left to chance.

When they finally got there, waiting outside the back door for Sergio to give them the okay to go in, Martín was ready. Everything would be alright.

Everything runs absolutely perfectly - they get to the first floor undetected, they’re right outside the door, and just as Martín was about to open it, there’s the sound of voices. Martín struggles to comprehend at first, freezing on the spot until Andrés suddenly pulls his hand hard enough to send him flying into his arms. And then it happens - not quite like in his dreams, but similar enough that Martín gets a glimmer of hope that he might be dreaming again. 

He isn’t. Though Andrés _does_ pin him to the wall, he does so only to shield his body from the sudden and sobering whip-cracks of gunfire. Martín has worked with _explosives_ , but it is the gunfire that finally makes him understand that what they’re doing is _real_ and really dangerous.

“Down,” says Andrés, pushing at the nape of his neck roughly, then crouching right over him. Martín can’t look up, but he hears the absolute control in Andrés’ voice. “ _Stay_.”

It all took three seconds, maybe four, but it stretched endlessly in Martín’s molasses mind. The spin, the crouch, Andrés’ commands followed by a sure motion, a smooth turn, then three gunshots. Then silence. 

Andrés still has one arm around Martín’s shoulders as he’s half turned when he’s lowering his gun. They’re touching, and even though Martín can’t hear it, he can feel Andrés’ thudding pulse through his skin, through all the layers of clothing. Andrés is calm, Martín is petrified - they’re both staying still, and it’s (probably) quiet. When the ringing starts to lessen in his ears, Martín finally becomes aware of himself - he’s got both hands pressed to his ears, he’s now knelt on the floor and Andrés is still covering his body with his own, just as he’s done from the start. 

Martín also becomes aware of the fact that the silence can only mean that Andrés shot their attackers. Three shots - one-two-three - and then silence. There’s no movement, no sounds, so it’s possible that— 

“They’re dead.” 

That. 

Martín completely shuts down.

They don’t get the hard drive. Andrés helps him up, steers him around the bodies on the floor and then right outside. There’s no one in the alley where they’ve parked, there’s no sound of sirens, which strikes Martín as completely strange given the noise they made. The gunshots still echo in Martín’s mind, but there’s no sirens, not even when they eventually get onto the main road to get out of town.

Martín has a brief moment of clarity, the second one he’s had in Andrés’ car as they’re leaving the scene of a crime. Again, he’s freaking out silently in the passenger seat while Andrés seems completely unperturbed by their actions. So Martín doesn’t say much, not in the car, not when they’re waiting at reception to get their room key. He says briefly that he’s okay when Andrés asks, worried, during their elevator ride, but he doesn’t add anything else. Once they’re in their room he just lays on his bed and curls around a pillow, staring into the distance at the drab hotel furniture.

Wordlessly, Andrés unlaces Martín’s shoes and takes them off, leans to undo the top buttons of his shirt, and then lies on the narrow bed, right by his side. Martín is too deep inside his head, thinking of the man beside him - the _murderer_ \- to worry about what it might mean.

“Martín.” When he doesn’t respond, Andrés shifts, placing his hand on Martín’s shoulder. He flinches, and would apologize for it, but finds himself too stunned for words. “I had to do it. It was either us or them.”

“So what now?” It’s all he can ask, the thing on the forefront of his mind - _what now_. He wasn’t dead (unlike those three guys) but— would he stay that way?

“Now you try to sleep. We’ll meet with Sergio in the morning - I’ll get in touch with him, let him know that we’re okay.”

“The plan? The hard drive, we didn’t— Are they going to find us?”

“Doubtful,” Andrés says with a heavy sigh. “We’re safe. As for the hard-drive? It got too risky, it isn’t worth it. We’ll find a way around it. What matters is that we’re safe.”

  


Martín doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he wakes up, he’s stuck to Andrés’ front, one of his arms wrapped around Martín's middle, and they’re under covers where it’s warm and nice, and, for just a second, Martín forgets where they were and what had happened - until it all crashes back on him.

Right on cue, Andrés shifts.

“Martín?”

“Did I wake you?”

“No.” He says nothing, and the hand wrapped around Martín’s chest doesn’t let up, doesn’t move. Martín becomes hyper-aware of how they’re touching, he feels it in the scream of blood ringing in his ears. He can’t take it, so he turns on his back, and the hand around his middle lifts, and he’s free. Untethered. He misses its weight immediately.

He’s looking at the ceiling, and there’s so much he wants to say, to ask about. What have they done? _What were they doing?_

Andrés sighs.

“I’m sorry if this is a lot. It’s probably the adrenaline drop, it was bound to hit.”

It wasn’t that - or, fine. It wasn’t _just_ that. It was everything.

“Did you really kill those guys?”

“I did.”

“And have you— have you done that before?”

“Killed? I’ve had to, yes.”

Martín feels suddenly light-headed. How did he end up sucked in this, and how did the hole keep getting deeper?

“Listen, Martín. Sometimes things don’t go as planned. We’re usually prepared for every scenario, even failure. And even when we’re not, well- We’re very resourceful, as you’ve seen. This time, I have to admit, luck was on our side, too. This is the best possible outcome of that situation.”

They were hiding in a hotel, having left one unsuccessful heist and three dead bodies behind - it did not sound like the best possible outcome, but what did Martín know? He wasn’t an accomplished criminal - unlike the man beside him.

“Who are you?”

Andrés shifts beside him, sitting up. He takes a couple of seconds before he speaks.

“It’s my fault for lying to you. But it was that one time, the vineyard story. Everything since, everything else was the truth.”

“Everything else?” Martín sits up, turning to Andrés. “I don’t know _anything_ else about you!”

“Alright. Everything. Sergio is my brother. Half-brother. Our father used to do this, he was a bank robber, but he had this most elegant mind when it came to planning heists. Large-scale, years in the making type of plans, not even close to the things we’re doing now. Sergio grew up with him, he’s gotten to see him work, to learn from him. I just— I guess it was in my blood. Sergio and I found each other after dad died, and once we’ve found our… similar interests, we’ve started to work together.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Long enough for the fact that we haven’t been caught to actually mean something.”

“Okay,” Martín says, feeling like he needs a break, like he needs to think and to reassess everything that he was doing, everything that he was feeling.

“We’re due to meet Sergio in two hours, you should probably go get a shower if you want to.”

  


He doesn’t meet Sergio. As soon as they’re back in Madrid, he goes straight home, where he tells Mirko (he lies to him, _again_ ) that he’s had a fight with Andrés just so he would avoid any questions. He doesn’t see Andrés for the whole week - he only gets one text, a loaded, ‘ _I’m sorry._ ’ sometime on Wednesday night. He doesn’t respond to it. 

  


Martín is sliding the last book on the shelf, making sure that the books aren’t packed too tightly when he realizes that _he’s on his time off and he’s still fixing shelves_. Wouldn’t even be the first time; he caught himself on several occasions fixing shelves or simply pushing back the dustcover of random books in other bookstores, because apparently he cares about books in _other_ bookstores, which— okay, maybe he cares about books in general - which isn’t weird, it’s common sense. Or so Martín tells himself.

But it’s still a Saturday evening and he’s had half of his shelves laid out on the floor beside him because he decided that, to his bookseller mind, organizing by subgenre within a genre made way more sense than just an alphabetical sort by author and title. 

Which is maybe not so normal? Or at least ‘common’.

Martín suddenly gets an out of body sort of feeling, and he’s seeing himself standing between stacks of books of various sizes (and sub-genres), and he sees the rest of his apartment, too - empty - and then he sees right out the window outside, where people were having loud dinner on the sidewalk, in the cafe across the street.

He should be there; he should be out on a Saturday night, instead of doing… whatever it was that he was doing. Was he having a mental breakdown? He felt too self-aware to be having one, but would he really be able to tell if he was? 

Oh god, and he wasn’t even high. 

He was certainly not okay. For various reasons. Not least of which, he was quite possibly an accomplice to murder. Maybe he hadn’t yet comprehended the true magnitude of what they’ve done - stealing is one thing, but _taking lives? -_ so maybe that’s why he was so calm. He wasn’t _okay_ with it; he did fine in his last morality check, but he wasn’t— maybe he wasn’t as bothered by it as he should have been. And the reason for it all, as fucked-up as it was, might be Andrés. The murderer. 

His actions should have pushed Martín away. Not just from Andrés, but from what they were doing altogether. And yet, he only wanted to get in deeper. (Hah. In both of them.)

It was an unpleasant feeling, Martín used to be fairly uncomfortable with not being _sure_. Chaos used to be his enemy, but ever since he’s met Andrés, since he’s started to _follow_ him, he’s become addicted to it, to cheating it every time. Andrés and Sergio seemed to be prepared for everything, they thought of things so obscure yet obvious - after the fact - that put them in the advantage even from the direst situations. Martín craved that. 

He’s rudely brought out of his Reverie in Sax and Violins by a knock at the front door. He has to step over the various obstacles to get there, almost falls once, loses his balance and hits the doorframe on his way out. And because his life’s a bad sitcom, when he opens the door, it’s Andrés. 

Andrés, who walks in right past Martín before he’s even had a chance to say a single word.

“Yeah, sure, come in,” he says, sarcastically, as he pushes the door closed, locks it then draws the key halfway out.

“You can leave the key back in the lock, Mirko’s not coming home tonight.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he’s got a really nice suite at the Villa Magna with his date.”

“Dario.”

“Dario,” Andrés agrees.

“How do you know that?”

“How do you think?”

Well, yeah. Of course he would.

“I could have just come to your place, you know. I usually do.”

“Let’s just say that we’re boyfriends, and this is a boyfriend thing to do.”

“No, it isn’t. Wait, you think this is normal? Shacking up your… _boyfriend’s_ roommate in a fancy hotel just so you’d… you know.”

“Mirko deserves pampering, I’m sure. He seems lovely.”

“Sure, okay. But _boyfriend things_? Is that what you told him?”

“I didn’t have to tell him anything, he understood very well from my offer.”

“Yeah, he is a sharp fellow,” Martín nods, non-committaly. “So why are you here?” 

“I thought you were sharp, too.”

“What? Excuse you, you cryptic—”

“Boyfriend stuff. Things. Whatever you called it.”

“But we’re not really boyfriends.” It sounds childish when he spills the thought, out loud, right as it occurs to him.

Andrés doesn’t respond, he just smiles, then approaches Martín, his intentions petrifyingly clear when he bites his lower lip a mere second before he closes his eyes and kisses him. 

Okay, so maybe Martín _is_ having a mental breakdown.

How can he _not_ give in to a mental breakdown when Andrés is kissing him? Voluntarily, not for show, none of those quick pecks either. This is very much real, with teeth and tongue and hot breath, and moans that Martín almost loses himself in. He feels like he’s possibly shooting himself in the foot by bringing it up, but the mischievous side of him can’t resist asking. He pulls away and his hands land softly on Andrés’ chest.

“What about your rule?”

Andrés shrugs. “It _is_ a pretty good rule. I’m afraid I already broke it, though.”

“Oh.” Andrés leans back in, but Martín’s hands are firm where they press back. “Do say more.”

“There’s only one person I’d protect with my life, and that’s Sergio. Or rather, _there used to be_ only one person. Now it’s two.”

“And isn’t that—also terrible according to your rule?”

“Quite. But I wouldn’t dream of doing this without you, just like I wouldn’t dream of doing it without Sergio. And I’m definitely breaking that rule with him - we’re _brothers_.”

“What about betrayal?”

“Why, do you have any plans to betray me?”

“Don’t you have any worries that I might?”

“Honestly? No. But even if you did— I’ll take that chance.”

Martín has quite a few thoughts, but can’t find the words for them. He presses forward instead, cups Andrés’ face between his palms, and deeply wants to say something, but realizes it isn’t to Andrés. Martín’s made his choice already, despite his better reason. He’s made his choice, and he chose Andrés before he even knew him - and, surprisingly, he chooses him even after all of that, still. He’s discovered the reckless side of himself recently, the one that craved the chaos and the thrill that he’s found with and _in_ Andrés. 

It _has_ been chaos, but Martín kept saying yes. He’s saying _yes_ again, all coded in the burn of his lips and the soft touch of his palms. When they finally break away, Andrés chases his lips but Martín keeps his distance.

“I have to admit; it’s quite refreshing to know that you want this too. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, you know.”

Andrés laughs softly, tilting his head to the side. He looks so self-assured, absolutely basking in the attention that he knows he has. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this chapter took forever, but it’s because I could not focus on writing _this_ chapter, getting continuously distracted by writing the following one, which is the one where things get more ~adult in nature (and not in that they can finally purchase alcohol legally).
> 
> You would not believe how much of this was edited right here, on AO3, minutes before posting.
> 
> And hey, it's not quite posted at 2AM, my favorite time to post (for some reason).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve never been— “ Andrés exhales, there’s a cut in his brow as he works to form a sentence in a way that Martín had never seen him do. Andrés could literally start from a simple hello, then seamlessly work his way up through an obscure bit of history, build up steam and then explode in a righteous and passionate soliloquy. He was a master of shaping emotions into words, always impeccably spoken - just… not in that moment. He didn't set out on a gorgeous verbal journey, he simply said, “I've never done this.”
> 
> Martín suspected. He maybe even hoped a little, so knowing this for sure? Made everything better.
> 
> “Do you want to?”
> 
> “Yes.”

Andrés is smug. Not without reason, of course, but he’s smug and confident when he eyes Martín with a rude curl to his lip in a wordless challenge. Well, Martín _loves_ a challenge. He remembers that time in the elevator, how Andrés got all stuttery after being pinned to that mirror, just how _hard_ he was. All he does is to _push_ , just slightly, and Andrés takes a step back, then another. He stops when his back hits the wall in the narrow hallway, tries to take a step forward but Martín blocks him, drawing himself up, pulling his shoulders back. 

“Sergio mentioned girlfriends and an ex-wife, and I’ve seen the way you look at women.” He puts his hands on Andrés’ hips, treading his thumbs through the belt loops. “He never mentioned anything about boyfriends, why is that?” And he pulls Andrés closer, who follows - half a step - until they're flush against each other.

“Let’s just say that my,” he pauses for words. “My interest so far has been purely academic.”

“In what way?”

“I’ve never been— “ Andrés exhales, there’s a cut in his brow as he works to form a sentence in a way that Martín had never seen him do. Andrés could literally start from a simple _hello_ , then seamlessly work his way up through an obscure bit of history, build up steam and then explode in a righteous and passionate soliloquy. He was a master of shaping emotions into words, always impeccably spoken - just… not in that moment. He didn't set out on a gorgeous verbal journey, he simply said, “I've never done this.”

Martín suspected. He maybe even hoped a little, so knowing this for sure? Made everything better.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.” Andrés is calm, but the fact that he's so quiet shamelessly thrills Martín. 

“What do you want to do?” He knees his thigh between Andrés’, pushing forward gently. "You can have anything." 

Andrés, for all he's clawing at the aura of competence that defines him, remains silent. When he doesn’t answer, Martín sort of understands why - big bad Andrés, he’s new at this. Has to be shown, has to have his hand held. Without a doubt, he’s rarely in situations where he doesn’t hold all the power, and so far, Martín’s been the new recruit, the one who was still learning. Andrés was always in charge, while Martín was merely _allowed_ to tag along. 

When Andrés still doesn’t answer, when Martín sees it on his face that he’s overwhelmed by the possibilities, he takes the lead. He presses himself right against his body, looks him up and down before staring right into his eyes. He wants to make this memorable. Even if this… _thing_ , whatever it was, even if it didn’t last, he wanted Andrés to remember this. To remember him.

“What would you say,” Martín lets go of Andrés’ hips, slides his hands up up up - a smooth glide against the silk of his shirt, he follows the curve of the neck with his fingertips then slides right down his spine. Andrés lets him - he’s motionless under Martín’s palms when they rest on his lower back. 

‘ _Look at you,’_ Martín wants to say. ‘ _Look how beautiful you are_.”

He will, just— not now. He presses closer to Andrés, chest to chest, and they’re just breathing, in and out, for a few seconds until their breath falls in sync. He smells clean, not even a hint of cologne, like he’s just showered. _He’s gotten ready._ Martín gets closer to the pulse point in Andrés’ neck, he nuzzles gently as he breathes it in - _clean_. 

Andrés inhales with a shudder and his head falls back enough that the long line of his neck grabs Martín’s attention, drawing him in and kissing the offered skin. He catches his jaw softly in his other palm, tilts his head a little further to enjoy his smell - _him_ , Andrés, not the soap, not the faint smell of chlorine that still hangs on his skin. He made such a pretty picture, head bowed back and securely held between Martín’s palms. “What would you say if I fucked you?” 

Vulgar. He was being vulgar, but he loved talking dirty - and, by the looks of it, so did Andrés. His arms fly up and grab Martín’s shoulders, not hard, but they squeeze enough to make themselves known. 

“I’ve never—”

“I know. I can show you. I can make it real good, if you want.” 

Andrés exhales a shudder, like he’s trying, he’s really fucking trying to— what? To resist? He’d say no just because it’s who he is, because of whatever’s lacking inside him that’s always making him burn to call the shots. He doesn't, not outright. He leads, just like they're dancing, he pushes Martin's shoulders - not hard, but in a way that makes Martín instantly understand that he has no choice but to follow - and he flips them around.

Andrés is pushing at his shoulders, too hard for how Martín isn’t resisting, making his bones grind against the hard wall. But he’s not resisting, he’s just— not impressed by this little display.

“I’m going to need words, cariño. You can’t have it unless you say it.”

There's a small war going on inside Andrés, playing subtly on his features. It's barely anything, but the press on his fingers against the bones in Martin's shoulders is lessening. He doesn't know why he went for it, he'd be more than satisfied to have Andrés bend him over the nearest surface and raw him right there, but there's a little thing inside him that makes him confident in his proposal. He's going to fuck Andrés, he knows it, and Andrés knows it too, judging by the flush that paints his cheeks.

“Yes.”

Which is what Martín wanted to hear, but not _quite_.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I want you to fuck me.” No hesitation, but his breath still came out heavier when he spoke and Martin could see in his pulse just how hard his heart was racing. 

“You said a while back that you trusted me - do you trust me, still?”

“Yes.” 

“Good. Palms on the wall behind me."

Andrés obeys, easily, without a challenge. He sets one palm flat on the wall, then the other, framing Martín, pushing himself back just a little. 

Martin gives him a bright smile, then drops to his knees.

They’ve barely done anything, and Andrés is so hard in his fucking dress pants that it looks almost obscene. Martín didn’t really think, all those months ago, when Andrés started visiting the library, he didn’t think that he’ll end up like this, on his knees for him - though he _did_ think about it. He hoped. But he never thought it would really happen. Yet there he was, with Andrés on shaky legs before him, hands splayed on the wall, looking down at him.

“Can I suck you off?” He asks because he’s all about consent, consent is sexy, and because he’s seen the way Andrés responds to his words so he's _going_ to use them.

“Yes.” 

As if he’d say no. Nobody ever said no - at least not in Martín’s experience. He unbuckles the belt, undoes the button, only remembers to peer up as he drags the zipper down. He’s unwrapping him like a present, something he's longed for but finally gets to have, and it's the same feeling, the same kind of excitement and expectation. Andres is hard in his briefs, the outline of his cock standing out delightfully pornographic. Martin puts his mouth on him, over the cotton, and breathes him in. The warmth of his breath, the wetness permeating through, it makes Andrés throw his head back with a moan.

"Now," Martín says, nosing along the straining length, "I know the ladies can be quite good at this too, but," he hums, looking up from under his eyelashes, "I've been told that I'm quite spectacular."

"Just— Martín." 

"What."

"Fuck; stop teasing."

"But that's the best part."

"It's really not." 

“We can always switch places so you can show me how it’s _really_ done.” He says it as he’s pulling the briefs lower, freeing his cock, tugging at the pants until they’re barely halfway down his ass. As expected, he doesn't get challenged again.

“No, this is good,” Andrés says. "Show me spectacular."

Well there are shades of spectacular, and it all depends on the person, really - Martín’s gotten pretty good at reading people and their _needs_. So he starts slow - a gentle lick at the slit, tasting the clear drop pearled there, then running his tongue around the ridge of the head before closing his lips around it and giving a slow suck. The best part of if - the absolute best part of all of this - is when Andrés can't control the noises that come out of his mouth, when his muscles strain under his skin with the effort to stay still.

Martín just enjoys the taste of Andrés, the heat radiating off him in an intoxicating hint of musk, the odd twitch against his tongue; all of it. When he wraps his hand around the base, feeling the pulse of blood rush under his fingers, Andrés bucks his hips and moans with this sinful noise that slips down Martín’s back like honey. He stops teasing, taking Andrés as far as he can, squeezing his fist around that he can't fit in his mouth, and he really starts moving. 

He could do it for _hours_ \- yes, even with the burn that starts to settle in the hinges of his jaw - fuelled only by the stream of grunts coming from above.

“Look at me,” Andrés almost growls, low and breathless, and Martín instantly does. He peers up until he’s meeting Andrés’ eyes, and he wonders - what does he see? Martín is undeniably a man, none of the soft features and slow curves of a woman. This has to be new, to be unfamiliar in a way. But Andrés isn’t averting his eyes, he’s not closing them; no possibility to pretend that there was someone else on his knees for him, no pretext to hide. They keep eye contact until Martín hums a small laughter deep in his throat, and Andrés clenches his fists against the wall, squeezing his eyes. “ _Fuck._ ”

So Martín didn’t really know Andrés, but he was beginning to. He _loved_ this. (Martín’s undisputable skills notwithstanding) So only for a little while, he lets him be in control - he stills, taking his hand away, softening the press of his fingers in Andrés’ thighs. He relaxes his throat, and Andrés instantly picks up and starts to thrust - slow, at first, then harsher. One of his hands peels off the wall to cup the back of Martín’s head, keeping him still while he buries his cock deep for just a second, then he draws back with a curse. His fingers try to curl in Martín’s short hair but can’t find purchase, so they slide and splay against his scalp he fucks Martín’s face - not _rough_ , but not restrained either. 

Martín knows this. Not just the act itself, but the surrender in that moment, that little switch in his brain that flips and he’s instantly in that headspace. (God bless the bookstore and unexpectedly kinky Mónica in purchasing for supplying the bookstore with the most educational content that may or may not have helped Martín navigate a few things he was learning about himself.) He could so easily slip into that place right now, he could give in and it would without a doubt be better than any sex he’s ever had. But what he really wants to do is to _show_ Andrés. It’s his turn.

It’s not selfless though, since Martín rudely slides his palms under the hem of Andrés’ pants, cupping his ass. It’s a wonder he’s managed to keep his hands off Andrés’ ass for as long as he has, so he wastes no time in grabbing fistfuls of taut muscle and kneading, spreading him just a little. Andrés jolts and his cock twitches against Martín’s tongue, and when he thrusts back in, he pushes maybe a bit too far, making Martín gag and sputter. 

“Fuck,” he gasps suddenly then lets go of Martín’s head, pushing against his hand on the wall. He’s stepping back, his cock slipping out of Martín’s mouth. “I thought I’d— I thought I’d come, oh god. _Fuck_ ,” he growls, balling his hand in a fist. “I don’t want to come just yet.”

Great planning skills, Martín has to agree. He’s catching his breath, wiping the itch of a tear streaking down his chin. "Mmm, you're right.” He makes sure to look up from under tear-sticky lashes when he says, “I'd much rather be inside you when you finally come."

" _Fuck_."

“Bed, that way.”

Andrés straightens himself, trying to look as dignified as one could with their dick hanging out (but he made it work. He _made it work_ ) Martín’s room is mere steps away, and so is his bed, still unmade from the previous night - not that Andrés seems to mind. He sits down on the edge, then drags himself up on his elbows and lays down when Martín joins him. 

That little power-play out of the way, Martín’s ready to take the reigns again. He perches himself in Andrés’ lap, careful to sit _just_ out of touch, and he looks down with a playful curl on his lip that’s completely inappropriate for what he had in mind. He’s finally caved in, taking his own cock out and giving himself a few strokes with a very light hand. 

“You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna open you right up,” he says, trailing the fingers of his other hand down Andrés’ abdomen, “I’m going to get you all nice and ready for me, then I’ll fuck you so good that you won’t ever think of pussy again.” The sharp inhale that Andrés takes cuts right through him. He laughs softly, running the tips of his fingers down Andrés’ cock. “Tell me to stop and I will. As soon as anything gets too much, anything - tell me.”

“I will.”

“Good.” 

And god, Andrés seems so fucking into it. He’s still coming down from his near-orgasm, he’s still panting and unfocused so Martín can’t go straight into it, no. Instead, he crawls up Andrés’ body, arranging his own cock against his, and leans down to kiss him. It’s a messy kiss, wet and with too much tongue, too much enthusiasm in the way Andrés cups his head with his hands and guides him just so, tongue delving deeper in his mouth. He can’t even grind, he’s forgotten everything that isn’t their lips, the warmth of Andrés’ breath as it mingles with his own, he almost forgets what they’re doing, until Andrés breaks the kiss and searches for his eyes.

“Do it.”

So he does. He leans over for the night stand, grabs the lube and condoms, and he realizes that he hasn’t done it in a while. Not just topping, any of it. Ever since… ever since he laid eyes on Andrés. “Sit up. Take off your clothes.”

Andrés isn’t even trying to put on a show, he’s unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that seem too steady - Martín just pulled off his own t-shirt and threw it to the floor and was inelegantly pulling at his sweatpants too - but Andrés was almost methodical in his movements. Martín pulls his pants - once so beautifully pressed - and tosses them to the floor, then takes Andrés’ shirt from his hands and adds it to the pile. 

He smiles when he settles back between Andrés’ legs, urging them to open wider, to make room for him. Andrés is laying back, expectant, his lips parted so slightly, so tantalizingly that Martín can’t resist the urge to slip his tongue between them as he slides his fingers lower, pressing the pad of a finger against his hole. The breath that Andrés takes at the touch cuts deep through the both of them.

“Has anyone ever done this to you?”

“No.”

Martín’s been with _virgins_ before - not exactly his thing; he didn’t want the responsibility, he didn’t want to remain in someone’s memories that long. Not with Andrés. Every little new detail, every realization, every confirmation that he’d be the first to touch Andrés that way, it built inside Martín in a thing that he _had_ to have.

His elbow is digging in the pillow right by Andrés’ head, their foreheads are touching, and all that Martín can see is Andrés’ lips as they part and gasp when the finger breaches him. Martín keeps still, his hand caught between their bodies, forearm brushing past Andrés’ erection, and he doesn’t move until he feels the rise and fall of Andrés’ chest under him resume. He’s slow and gentle when he pushes in, feeling Andrés react with his whole body in short little spasms and breathy moans. He’s so careful that he only realizes when he feels a little lightheaded that he’s breathing shallowly, as if afraid to miss even the slightest noise that Andrés would make. 

When he starts moving the finger, not even by much, Andrés clenches on him like a vise and rolls his entire body in a tense arch of his spine. _Fuck_ , Martín closes his eyes and breathes through his bared teeth. He needs to focus. 

“Have you ever done this to yourself?”

“I, ah—” Once again, he goes tight around Martín’s finger, so Martin breathes a shush right into the faint stubble on his cheek. 

“Relax; breathe.” 

“I may have done it once or twice. Before.” Anders almost whines when the finger twists. “ _Martín_.”

“Want me to stop?”

Andrés shakes his head, eyes tightly shut. 

“Want more?” When Andrés starts to nod, Martín reminds me. “Words.”

“Yes. More.”

“Keep talking. How did you do it?”

“Shower,” Andrés manages, between gasps.

“Mmm. Ever managed two?”

Andrés nods, before catching himself and saying ‘yes’. Martín enjoys this to a degree that he’s never enjoyed anything sex-related in his life - not any permutation of naughty bits or partners or locations. It’s the sounds that Andrés is making, and how they’re pointedly _not words_ , since Martín had finally found the button that shuts Andrés up (and it’s not in a place that he can access when he needs it most). The man is barely managing one-word answers, and it’s so delightful to hear him this thoroughly undone that Martín can’t stop himself from inquiring some more.

“What were you thinking about when you were doing it?” Martín is the brightest shade of optimistic when he imagines, he hopes that Andrés would say, ‘you’.

And yet he does.

“I find that hard to believe.” Near impossible, really. 

“Just you.” 

Andrés relaxes when he finally says it, he relaxes enough that Martín decides he’s definitely ready for more.

“Do it,” he commands again, in a surprisingly even tone of voice. 

“Trust me, you don’t want to rush this part. At least the first time. Later? I mean—” Martín stops before rambling too far. It’s so tempting to start rubbing at what’s definitely Andrés’ prostate, so, _so_ tempting that he doesn’t even do it once for fear that he’d make Andrés come too early - that’s how tightly he was wound. “But right now, let me do this right.” 

He’s ready. They’re both ready, so Martín gets up on his knees, rolls the condom on with shaky fingers, he steels himself and takes a breath deep enough to make him drunk. Andrés is laying under him, spread out and welcoming, and he’s moving his thighs without a thought of protest when Martín pushes his knees up. One hand’s digging into the mattress, shaking a little with the strain, the other’s guiding his cock just right and Martín stops before he moves. 

“Yes?” 

There’s a brief pause before the nod, before the firm, echoed _‘yes_ ’, one that Martín remembers from his own first time. Andrés’ eyes tell the same story, the small storm of nerves brewing alongside the need, the curiosity, the want. Martín exhales as he pushes in, starts cursing as soon as his cockhead pierces the muscle and everything goes blindingly tight around him. He forces his eyes open, taking in Andrés’ furrowed brow, the spit shining on his bitten lips and the way he can’t seem to get any sort of noise out. 

“Good?” 

He gets a nod and accepts the fact that words might soon be past them both. It’s good enough. He keeps still until Andrés relaxes, then starts pushing in again, slowly, until he’s buried to the hilt. It’s a dizzying moment, looking down and seeing Andrés like that, that he has to close his eyes. Gentle is the only way he can move, a lazy roll of his hips, measured and restrained, and he’s lost in the sounds that Andrés makes, in the warmth of his skin below and the squeeze of his legs around him.

He’s moving with care, so caught up in the story on Andrés’ face that his fingers find his jaw, cupping it again like it was a precious thing, and he crashes down to kiss him. He slows down to a grind, and is taken by surprise when the legs squeeze tighter and Andrés slaps a hand against the mattress, finding enough purchase to push up, chasing, demanding. He gasps, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a hoarse whisper. 

“Harder. Harder, fuck—” 

Martín nods, pushing to his knees, making Andrés freeze at the change of angle. His thighs fold easily around Martín’s shoulders, he yields all control, bracing against the headboard and this time, when Martín moves, they both moan. The new angle changes everything, but it’s also the way that Andrés lets himself be taken, so open and hungry, that spurs Martín into burying himself a little deeper than he intends, lost to the need pulling him. He fucks Andrés with sharp thrusts that make him tense and relax in rolling waves, a hypnotic rhythm that he can’t seem to control. A sigh pours out of Martín when he looks down to where his cock slides in and can’t stop the shiver that radiates in his gut at the sight, at Andrés’ cock and the shiny trail of precum it’s smudged on his skin. 

“Touch yourself.” 

It’s not long from there, with Andrés’ hand moving up and down his cock, with Martín digging bruises in his thighs where he holds him up, driving him into his thrusts. Andrés’ legs are sliding from around Martín’s arms where they shakingly clench tighter and tighter until, with a deep growl, he’s gone. It’s the most beautiful thing Martín has ever seen, the roll of his eyes under his lids as he gets lost for a moment, disconnected from Martín, from reality as he comes across his chest. 

As Andrés is still twitching and contracting around him, Martín lets go of his thighs and runs his fingers through the slippery mess on his chest - he likes to get _dirty_ \- and he smiles as he puts the fingers on his tongue, sucking them clean. Andrés throws his head back with a curse, squeezing his eyes shut. 

"Fuck, you're hot." He drops down, chases Andrés’ lips for a kiss - a little bitter but not at all hesitant, regardless - then touches his forehead to his. "Next time, I want to ride you—" he starts moving again, slow at first, but loses himself to the feeling and starts thrusting in earnest. "Fuck— I want to feel you come inside me." 

Andrés shudders, and Martín is not prepared when his own orgasm slices through him, a sudden, bright thing that leaves him breathless as he’s spilling in rhythmic pulses. 

“Oh my god,” Martin whispers, breathless, in the echoey hollow of Andrés’ neck. He pulls out carefully, to no apparent discomfort from Andrés who’s seemingly still not fully coherent either. “That was—” 

“Yes,” Andrés agrees, unfolding his legs slowly, sprawling against the bed. He’s a fucked-out mess with a deep heave in his chest and a shiny sheen on his skin, a debauched picture of satiation that Martín wants to keep in his mind forever. 

"You were incredible." He feels it now, all at once, the reverence he's always had when looking at Andrés, this fucking— this force hidden behind his darkened eyes. There’s this nagging feeling inside him that he chooses to ignore, a weird little pull at his heart, a certain kind of flutter that he knows but isn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

Martín wants to say something witty, a sharp jab at that stupid rule, at Sergio and their fake-relationship, but can’t find anything that won’t sound either obnoxious or smug. Retorts aside, he knows that this— it changes things. And now that it’s happened, as surreal as it may feel (even though, fuck, it _has_ happened and Martín still feels the phantom taste of Andrés’ come on his tongue), he has to wonder, yet again- _what now_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays or happy Friday!  
> Here's a thematic tidbit:  
> ___________________
> 
> Martín’s bobbing his head to the rhythm, humming along as he’s sweeping the dustbunnies in a corner with a twirl of the broom. 
> 
> “What _are_ you listening to?” Mirko comes back with a heavy box, dropping it by the till. “It’s _May_.”
> 
> Martín just shrugs, but doesn’t stop moving to the music. He happened to find the old CDs when he’d cleaned their back room, and he _was_ feeling rather jolly.
> 
> “Christmas is a state of mind, you know?”
> 
> “No, we work in retail. Christmas is _hell_.“
> 
> “Well, when better to enjoy carols than when it’s _not_ Christmas, huh?”
> 
> Mirko shakes his head, going to the computer to change the music. After he settles on something more seasonally-appropriate, he turns and leans against the till, looking at Martín with a helpless sort of sigh.
> 
> “That Andrés must have a magical dick if he made you want to listen to Christmas carols at _any_ time of the year.”
> 
> Martín cackles. _“He does._ ”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they both talk - dirty, dirtier, to each other, _at_ each other, and to others. :)

“What about Sergio?” 

It’s probably not the most appropriate first thought he should be having right then, with a panting Andrés right by his side and his own come slowly cooling on his chest. The thought wasn’t without its merit though because whatever they just started, it definitely changed things. Martín still should have waited a bit before going there, though.

Andrés, this modern-day Adonis who lay all fucked-out and catching his breath by his side, turned with a lazy brow rise.

“What _about_ Sergio?”

“I don’t think he’s going to be too thrilled about this.”

“We don’t have to loop him in right away.”

“I’m shocked,” Martín smiles as he’s getting up and off the bed, butt-naked, “absolutely _shocked_ at the moral corruption that you so easily sow, Andrés de Fonollosa.”

“Maybe you’re just easily corrupted, _Martín Berrote_ , have you thought about that?” As a matter of fact, Martín had thought about that, quite a lot lately. Andrés couldn’t have known about it though. “I remember you jumped on the vineyard plan without a second’s thought, with not even one uncomfortable question.”

“Well, do you also remember the part where I did start asking questions?”

Andrés shifts up on his elbows and tracks Martín with his eyes, completely unashamed by his nakedness, like he wants to be admired. Martín does, in great detail, hanging at a slight angle from the doorframe. He was on his way to the bathroom but then turned to say something else and saw Andrés like that, so he had to stare. Gods, he was infuriatingly handsome. Where Martín was still gangly, all limbs, Andrés was lithe muscle; he was decidedly a man while Martín still teetered on that edge, a hint of baby fat still rounding his smile while Andrés was all lines and sharp angles.

And Andrés is already getting hard again, which fills Martín with the sincerest form of joy because - _fuck_ refractory periods, Andrés seems to be above all that bullshit, so he _really_ has to hurry. He takes a second to remember what he wanted to say before he got distracted, and almost gets distracted again. Andrés laughs. Martín doesn’t let him talk to find out why.

“When do Mirko and Dario check out?”

“Noon. But with a couple of phone calls, it can be noon tomorrow.”

“Make those phone calls.”

Martín showers as fast as he can while still being thorough, going on muscle memory alone since his thoughts were caught up in replaying their morning together. Martín had woken up with the press of Andrés’ cock digging into his back, so things obviously only got better from there. That’s the reason he is now showering alone; the morning’s shared shower proved to them that clean-up was impossible if they were both naked together. Absolutely impossible. Martín almost drowned while blowing Andrés under the cascading water of the shower, (which was probably not the worst way to go, but still) and later found himself seconds away from begging Andrés to take him right there, raw and with no prep.

Luckily, Andrés had enough sense to drag them out of there and back into bed, where he did take the time for actual prep. With lube. And then he fucked Martín until he was too boneless to hold his own weight and fell, face-first, onto the pillow that Andrés had to quickly rip from under his face so that he wouldn’t suffocate (again). He definitely drooled and made some sounds he’d never made before, but was way beyond caring at that point - all he wanted was to come. He almost did, despite the burn of the cotton against his oversensitized cock; he was a couple of breaths away when Andrés cruelly pulled him up on his knees to prop him against his chest. 

He didn’t come like that either, probably because he was too heavy to maneuver with how limp and useless he was, so he found himself on his back and folded in two before he could figure out which way was up. Andrés finally took mercy of him and took his cock in his hand, and Martín came instantly. 

That was less than fifteen minutes ago, and they were apparently both already up for it again. 

—

On Andrés’ insistence, they eventually got out of bed and put on some clothes. They even walked to a restaurant nearby for lunch where Martín had the best quiche of his life (he won’t tell Mirko though, his was almost comparable). It was fantastic, as was their conversation - Andrés told him a great deal of things in his charming verbal deluge, and among the stories, he peppered details of his past. Martín cataloged these additional morsels of information and neatly patched them up to the image of Andrés. 

He didn’t ask a lot of questions, mostly because he really didn’t have to, what with Andrés carrying most of the conversation. He talked about everything under God’s great sun, except for the most pressing and immediately-relevant topic - the two of them. So when Martín finished the last crumbs on his plate, he decided that he should probably address it himself since, for some reason, the topic didn’t seem to fall into focus.

Andrés was wrapping out a little anecdote about vegetarianism when Martín pours the last, slow-dripping drop from the bottle and into his glass. He’s gone over his particular approach of the subject in a couple of different ways until he found the most diplomatic way to address it - and then ignored it completely.

“So, uh,” he takes a sip of wine because he just realized he had no idea what he wanted to say. “We’ve been having an interesting evening. And morning. And morning again.”

“I dare say this lunch was interesting, too, “ counters Andrés, playing coy.

“Yeah, sure. Just differently. Our clothes stayed on throughout.”

Andrés laughs, downing his glass then eyeing the empty bottle with an unpleasant scrunch of his nose.

“Well,” he straightens up in his chair, visibly pondering whether they should be getting more wine. He seems to decide against it. “It was bound to happen.”

“What?”

“We’ve been sort of building towards this since we met in the bookstore.”

Martín really wants to bite with a mean, ‘ _back when you were still straight_ ’ but really knows better than to prod people right after figuring out fairly major things about themselves. 

“That’s why you were so eager to play along with our fake dating thing?”

“That was a delightful bonus, I have to say.”

Delightful indeed. 

“I sort of have to ask about one thing.” Martín is pointedly avoiding Andrés’, looking instead at the waiter that’s lazily strolling towards the kitchens. “Back in the governor’s place. You protected me with your own body. From _gunfire_.” Which was such a gallant thing to do, if essentially pointless since Andrés was not bulletproof himself.

Andrés doesn’t look quite uncomfortable, but his usually laid-back demeanor changes just a bit when he becomes tense.

“I did.”

And then nothing else. Okay. Maybe his question wasn’t exactly a question, so that’s why he got no response.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Do you do that a lot?”

“Which part?”

“Well, all of it really. But mostly protecting others with your life.”

Andrés laughs as he’s leaving a considerable tip and getting up. He almost groans when he straightens up - they _have_ been doing some rather strenuous exercise and were both feeling it - then motions for Martín to move as well.

“I’ve always been the type of person who puts their oxygen mask on before helping others. It’s how you survive, you know? Especially when you’re on your own for so long. But then I met Sergio, and, well. That changed everything. He’s changed me.” He looks at Martín, stops him right outside the little terrace they’ve just left. “ _You’ve_ changed me.”

“I have? How so?”

“Well,” Andrés leans in for a slow and filthy kiss. “You’re different.”

—

Martín is leaning against the railing of the small balcony that overlooks a sea of colorful rooftops and small terraces, enjoying the mid-afternoon sun and the silence that _siesta_ affords the otherwise busy city. Andrés is caught in a phone call on the other end of the apartment and Martín can faintly hear his calm voice from time to time. He’s alone, it’s quiet and he can _think_.

They’ve fucked, sure, a couple more times since last night, but they’ve also spent the day together. Almost like a real couple, eating together, walking across town and kissing to the very limit of public decency. What they had seemed real now, Martín realized, and they went along with it like it was the most natural thing in the world. It startled Martín a little, just how easily they slipped into it. But he’s seen how they work together, how they manage to understand each other even though they spoke vastly different languages, so he shouldn’t be surprised that they _work_ like this too. 

When the voice stops Martín smiles and waits, sucking the last burning breath out of his cigarette before crushing the butt in the ashtray. He more feels than hears it when Andrés approaches him, silently - as one with expect from someone of his profession - and he doesn’t speak until he settles right against Martín’s back, wrapping himself around him. 

“I could take you right here,” he says, words dripping down Martín’s spine like molten lava, and he slips one hand around Martín’s hip, pulling him back into his body. “Do you think you can be quiet?”

“No,” Martín croaks, then clears his voice. “No. And we’re not doing it on the balcony.”

“Pity,” says Andrés, palming at Martín’s interested cock, “I could just lower these a fraction,” he pulls at the band of Martín’s pants, just a tad, “I could slide into you so easily, I bet you’re still open from this morning.” His fingers slide, two of them, down between his cheeks and press gently at his hole. They don’t push in, they just tease, but Martín thinks that he’s right, he could easily take him. God, he really wants him to.

Just not there.

“Bed. Or any other surface, but behind a closed door.”

"You seem to be under the impression that you're calling the shots," says Andrés sweetly in the short hairs at the back of Martín’s neck. He’s withdrawing his hand, grabbing hold of Martín’s hip and pulling him close, in a tight grind against his hardening cock. He laughs, an open-mouthed spill of hot air on Martín’s skin, before saying firmly. “Turn.”

Martin twists in his arms until he’s facing him, keeping their eyes locked. He is more than up for wherever the day seems to be going, and his heart starts to pound faster in his chest. Andrés is calm where he looks back, but his expression changes in an instant when one of his hands flies to wrap around Martín’s throat. His fingers dig under Martín’s jaw, tilting his head back just a little, and he’s got a feral glint in his eye when he speaks.

“Get on your fucking knees.”

_Click_.

Martín drops to his knees just as Andrés takes half a step back in a seamlessly synchronized motion. He becomes aware of the dull pain in his knees only seconds later, when he stops staring at Andrés’ crotch and looks up, expectant.

“Appreciating the view, are you?”

Martín swallows hard (because, yes, he was very much appreciating the view) then nods, peering up. Andrés curls one hand around the railing of the balcony, then the other comes down to cup himself through the fabric of his pants.

“You've been gagging for this ever since you first laid eyes on it, haven’t you?”

Martín has to laugh, because — seriously.

“I've been gagging for it long before that.”

Andrés seems to have loved the little challenge. He undoes his pants, draws them and his briefs just low enough, bunched under his balls, to free his cock. He’s giving himself a few strokes, almost fully hard now, in a gentle and hypnotic glide and then stops, holding himself a breath away from Martín’s lips.

“Open up. Let's see you gag, then.”

He probably wouldn’t - it was one of his most convenient talents, an almost non-existent gag reflex that he didn’t have to work for and an impeccable technique that he did - but the words still make him dizzy. He opens his mouth, waits for the slide of Andrés’ cock into his mouth, the press, anything. Andrés doesn’t move.

“You don’t expect me to do all the work, do you?”

So he goes for it. None of the teasing, the soft licks, and the show, Martín takes him into his mouth, hollows his cheeks, then sucks. There’s a hum from Andrés, who’s widening his stance, steps wide, bracketing Martín with his legs and grabbing the railing with both hands. He’s looking out at the buildings ahead, at the rooftops, and he smiles.

“That the best you got?”

No better thing to spur Martín on, and he takes the bait. He goes for sloppy instead of masterful, wrapping his arms around Andrés’ thighs, straining in the small space where he’s crowded, with his back digging into the hard wall of the balcony. There’s enough space for him to move his head, just enough to withdraw fully, panting and looking up. He’s just a bit hazy, fluttery with a buzz in his stomach, but that- he can do. With a wink, he goes right back, swallowing the cock as far as he can, then taking a deep breah and closing his eyes, working himself further down until he stops and withdraws with a sputter.

Andrés look down, not a hint on his face at how hard he is, how much his muscles swell under Martín’s palms when he locks his legs. He speaks, measured but low.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Be a good boy and choke yourself for me.”

And god damn, does Martín try. It seems that it wasn’t that difficult to choke if you really didn’t think about it, which Martín didn’t. He pushed down with determination, with the sole focus of getting his nose against Andrés’ skin, into the neatly trimmed patch of dark hair. He has to pull back several times, panting, wiping spit off his chin, but he gets right back to it, and every time manages a bit more. When he does, when he relaxes his throat enough that the thick head of Andrés’ cock pops right into his throat, Andrés finally lets out a growl, the first real hint of how affected he is. 

“Good boy.”

Martín’s eyes are closed, and he almost sees stars dancing behind his eyelids. Not a thing he was into - _used_ to be into - but damn, it absolutely worked for him. He’s pulling back, hungrily gasping for air, when Andrés takes his cock in hand. He says nothing, but his other hand gently curls under Martín’s chin, then turns his head to the side, smearing his cock wetly against his cheek. 

Without a word, he takes a step to the side, still holding his cock - not stroking - then points to the bed with his head.

“On your hands and knees, sweetheart.”

Which Martín does, he drops down as soon as Andrés moves away, then just— walks. On his hands and knees. He can feel the jut of his shoulders when he steps, the throbbing in his knees whenever the skin leaves the hard floor for a second. He’s there but not quite, since he doesn’t know when he’s gotten to the bed, or when Andrés closed the doors to the balcony. 

“That’s it,” Andrés croons, coming to stand right by Martín at the foot of the bed. “Can you take off your pants for me?”

Martín wonders, a little light-headed, whether he should get up but decides not to. He gets his trousers open and pulls them down, boxers and all, until they bunch around his knees and Andrés hums.

“Good. Now spread your legs, lean over the bed.”

It’s so easy to just— obey. Martín rests his body against the unmade sheets, hands splayed by his head, and spreads his knees just a bit wider, as far as he can with how his knees are caught in the fabric.

“Good. That’s not where I want your hands, though. Spread yourself.”

His cheeks are burning when he does, shoulders digging into the mattress when he touches his ass and pulls. He wants to hide his face, which doesn’t make a lot of sense; Andrés’s seen him. He’s seen all of him. They’ve fucked - each other - several times, but this still felt... Different. Martín feels exposed, vulnerable, and wants to turn away from Andrés’ eyes but is afraid that if he did it, he’d— what? Disappoint? And he doesn’t want to disappoint.

He’s a good boy, after all.

Fuck, he was not expecting that about himself.

“There you go, cariño, so good for me. Look at me.” Martín did, straining just a bit. “You’re perfect.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Martín gasped, rough against the sheets, “Oh my god, Andrés—” 

“Stay,” Andrés said, then turned. “I want to make sure you’re good and wet for me.”

Andrés kneels behind him, covering Martín’s body with his own, two fingers slipping wetly against his asshole before sliding into him, making Martín gasp and involuntarily clench.

“Relax, sweetheart. You can take this.”

It was easier than he thought, and Andrés was generous with lube - a blessing, since he was _big_ and, as Martín has learned, unrepentantly not gentle. He was thorough though, especially with prep, and got Martín pushing back shamelessly into his fingers. Andrés was right, Martín was still a little open, just the tiniest bit sore, but took three of his fingers too easily. 

“You ready for me?”

“Please,” Martín sighs, a desperate little sound whispered to the sheet beside him. Andrés leans back just a little, there’s the rustle of plastic, then the sound of latex stickily unrolling. 

Martín pushes back at the first press of Andrés’ cock, spearing himself quick enough that it rips a surprised gasp from Andrés, who grabs harshly at his hips to keep him still. The vise-like grip of bone against bone, fingers digging into his hips, it burns inside him and Martín really hopes it will bruise. 

“So eager,” Andrés pants, leaning over to whisper in Martín’s ear, his weight pressing Martín further onto the mattress. “But do keep still, will you? I want you to stay there, hands where they are, and to just,” without warning he pushes in until his hips fully connect with Martín’s ass, _“take it_.”

Andrés talks throughout. Half of the time, Martín doesn’t feel like he has the mental capacity to understand it, but the tone, the commanding and so fucking _sweet_ way in which he directs Martín or praises him; it feeds him in its own special way. He feels powerless to his voice, and he just allows himself to be taken, lets Andrés just fuck into him while spilling absolute filth in his ears. 

“Wish I could just keep you on your knees for me, Martín. Sink into your tight little ass whenever I want to, just—” he lets go of Martín’s hips, shifts, and presses his weight with one hand, hard, right between Martín’s shoulders, “Fuck, Martín. Wish I could come inside you, I would fill you right up, sweetheart.”

Suddenly, it becomes the only thing that Martín wants, too. He moans, a blinding wave of lust washing over him - he feels like he’ll die if he doesn’t touch himself, but he won’t, he won’t— His arms are burning with pressure; it’s in his shoulders and his wrists, they’re trembling with the strain of keeping himself open still. Andrés must notice, because he finally takes pity on him.

“Make yourself come for me.”

He has to push back, to allow for some movement, but Martín manages to take himself in hand - sweet fucking relief - and he starts jerking himself while becoming sharply aware of the soft, yet utterly filthy way in which Andrés’ balls slap against his own. And then Andrés _keeps talking_. 

“One day,” Andrés says, a little winded, clearly clinging to some superhuman composure to still be able to form sentences, “I’m going to come inside you, then you know what I’m gonna do?” Martín opens his mouth but only manages a pitiful moan. Andrés takes that as a good enough response. “I’m going to plug you up, keep you like that all day, then take it out and fuck my come right back inside you.”

Martín doesn’t even have to imagine it, he comes just at the words - the promise - with his eyes screwed shut and the weight of Andrés still firmly pinning him down. He can feel Andrés’ hips stutter a few times before he gasps, curses, then pulses inside him with rhythmic twitches.

Martín’s never ran a marathon, but he’s pretty sure that’s how the finish line must feel. When they’re both able to crawl back onto the bed and Martín finally gets enough blood flow to his brain, he wraps himself around a sweaty Andrés. 

“You certainly have a way with words, like— wow. Have you considered becoming a writer?”

“I _am_ a writer.”

“I know, I was being sarcastic.”

“No need for sarcasm; I take my work very seriously.”

“I'm sure. And if you write like you fuck, that thing's gonna be a classic. Watch me make room on the bestseller shelf just for you.”

Andrés is beyond sarcasm, apparently, because he somehow gets offended, and Martín has to stop whatever defensive shit he was about to come up with.

“I'm sorry, I just wanted to say - wow. You definitely spoiled me for dirty talk.”

“Never say I'm not good at reading people.” 

“I never did, and probably never will. Um, about some of the things you mentioned—”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, let's do all of that, okay?”

“Okay.” 

—

They finally manage to get out of bed, and Andrés elegantly slips out before a sleep-rumpled Mirko stumbles in just past noon. 

“I hope that was worth it,” he says, patting Martín’s shoulder on his way to his own room. “I need sleep.”

“That good?”

“Yes. Also no. Didn’t I tell you the boy’s… really pretty,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not a lot of conversation, at one point we just watched movies in bed.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I’m serious, your guy’s better made it worth it for you.”

“He has,” Martín nods, because— yes. It’s been more than worth it, more than he’d ever realistically hoped for.

“Oh and your boyfriend better be prepared to foot a respectable bill for room service. And for the minibar.”

—

His _boyfriend_ invited him over to his fancier place that same afternoon. Martín was vibrating with eagerness to see Andrés again, but deflated entirely when Sergio showed up too, not long after he walked in. He still felt awkward around him, and Andrés was just— not saying anything about _it_. Sergio unloaded a lot of books and folders on the table, gathering everyone to discuss an upcoming heist, and ‘ _it_ ’ was all soon forgotten.

Hours later, Martín was sleepily going through the papers on the table in front of him while Andrés was looking through the cupboards for more wine. 

“Looks like that was the last of it, I’ll be right back,” he says, patting his pockets before heading to the door. “Sergio, do continue; I won’t be long.” And he’s gone.

Martín sighs, looks at Sergio, and is cut off right as he opens his mouth to ask something. Sergio lays his hands on the table, laces his fingers, then unlaces them to flick his glasses up his nose.

“Martín.” _Oh shit,_ Martín inexplicably feels like he’s in trouble, like he’s about to be scolded. That precise tone and attitude were why Sergio was called The Professor, and it wasn’t the first time that Martín had found himself on the other side of that face - so he thought he knew what was coming. He didn’t. Sergio takes a deep breath and his defining uncomfortableness shifts into a calm determination as his eye bore into Martín’s. 

“He's going to fall in love with you,” he says, out of the fucking blue, “then he's going to leave you. It's what Andrés does. But this time, it’s going to ruin a good thing because us three? We work too well together to jeopardize it all for a fleeting infatuation.”

Martín’s too stunned by the suddenness of it all, by the fact that Sergio had picked up on it, by the fact that he decided to outright confront Martín about it. It’s a lot to parse, so he doesn’t get a chance to say something.

“You should know what you're getting yourself into so you can calibrate your expectations accordingly. But for now, don’t let yourself forget that you and Andrés? You’re not _actually_ together. This is all a show that you have to put on because _you,_ ”he spits it out, like an accusation, “can’t keep your mouth shut.”

The more Martín gets to know Sergio, the less he likes him. He’s a machine, all about numbers and plans and failsafes, he had one of the brightest minds that Martín has met - and yet he was completely oblivious of human nature. He saw patterns that no one else would have been able to, and yet when it came to the obvious ones between people, he seemed completely blind.

“And what if it isn’t? Fake, fleeting. What if it’s more than that?”

“It can’t be. We’ve discussed this before, no personal relationships - that’s the first rule. The only rule.”

Martín’s said it before and is more than willing to say it again, to Sergio’s face even - _fuck_ his rule. A flush is creeping up his neck as he looks at Sergio’s implacable face, so sure in his bullshit rules that Martín _has_ to do it. If he wants to talk, they’ll talk. 

“No personal relationships, you say?”

“No,” says Sergio. He thinks he has the last word. How _cute_.

“How’s this for a personal relationship, then. Because Andrés?” Sergio looks at him with a stone face. It’s all in the little emotions that Martin can read now, emotions that he was oblivious to before. The way his eyes narrow just a fraction when he’s angry, the way disappointment can be read in the clenching of his jaw. He’s not saying anything but Martín can sense the apprehension in him, he knows something is coming so Martin pushes further. “You know Andrés.” 

He prepares for the heavy blow, leaning over the table, almost conspiratorily, and he makes sure to look Sergio in the eye as he speaks. “I took his _virginity_. Well, such as it was. _We had sex_. We sort of do that a lot these days, you know. And we’ll keep doing it.” He settles back against his chair, pleased at the way his words clearly affected Sergio. “I’ll follow you, Sergio, I’ll follow you every step of the way in any of your plans; no question. Because you know what you’re doing. But when it comes to personal relationships? You don’t have a _fucking_ clue. Your opinion on the matter is baseless and irrelevant.” 

It feels great to get it out there, not just the truth about Andrés and him, but also just— everything he wanted to say to Sergio. And sure, Martín understood where Sergio was coming from. To a certain extent, it made sense. But only a fool would think that people wouldn’t form personal relationships just because they were sternly told not to.

Martín looks up when the door opens and Andrés walks in with a bottle of red wine. Sergio doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move, his nostrils flare and he’s so fucking _pale_ \- paler than usual, and he looks shaken enough that Andrés immediately picks on the fact that something’s off. He looks between them as he approaches the table.

“What’s going on?”

“I think I just broke your brother.”

“Broke? What are you talking about? What did you tell him?” He turns to Sergio, who’s trembling slightly with how still he’s making himself stay. “What did he say to you?”

Sergio shakes his head and gets up. “No.” He was avoiding everybody’s eyes, though Martín could still read the anger in the tightness of his jaw. He repeats, more firmly. “ _No_.”

“What?” Andrés asks, but doesn’t get his answer. He has to side-step and let Sergio go past him and walk out, without a further word to either of them. There’s a couple of open folders on the table in front of Martín, a rolled-up sheet held slightly open by the pen that Sergio left there. Andrés turns to watch his brother leave, the bottle of wine hanging forgotten in his hand, and he turns back to Martín once the door falls shut.

“What the hell, Martín!”

“It’s fine. He was being irrational. I showed him the errors of his ways.”

Andrés sets the bottle on the table, right by the roll of paper. 

“Tell me what you said to him.”

“Fine. I told him about us.”

“Oh.” Andrés sits in the chair where Sergio sat, leaning back.

“And you saw how he took it.”

“Well, it was to be expected, you know his stance on forming bonds in the circumstances that we share.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it was specifically _that_ part he took an issue with but sure, that too. Maybe give him a minute.” 

—

It was a boring Monday at the bookstore - a huge delivery arrived before lunch and Martín had been in the back room for most of the day, doing reception. Mirko only came by once or twice to drag him out whenever there were too many customers who were unable to read the clear signage, but overall left him alone. A couple of hours before closing time, Martín has to emerge from the safety of the room to face the crowds while Mirko went to get them something for dinner.

He’s leaning against the counter, lazily leafing through the latest Paulo Coelho book when Mirko walks in, approaches him without a word then drops a paper on the books displayed right by the till. Martín’s scanning the page, then looks up at Mirko.

“What?”

“Explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Page four,” he says, pointing at the paper. He leans over, grabs the paper, folds it the other way around then slaps it back on the counter. “This.”

Martín’s blood runs cold when he reads the title - “ _Explosion at historical vineyard sees the theft of priceless paintings_ ”.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyway, dirty talk, eh? Hope I didn’t make it ~too dirty for yee. 
> 
> Also - thank you for all your comments I love you all, together and separately, and I'll get back to each of them as soon as actually _writing_ this fic will stop eating away every shred of attention I got.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirko valiantly doesn’t speak to Martín at all until they get home - he does speak _at_ him when doing the closing books, but doesn’t properly address him until they’re home, hands washed and in the kitchen, where Mirko is putting on an apron.
> 
> “The truth.”
> 
> “Will you feed me while I tell you the truth?”
> 
> “I swear to god Martín, if you keep letting other people have this much power over you, you’ll get nowhere in life. But yes, I’ll start on a stir-fry.”
> 
> “I can wash the vedge.”
> 
> “Yeah, but you can also sit your ass down and tell me everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit just got real.

"Did you do this?" Mirko is serious, in a way that he never was, even when they were discussing deeply personal or heavy topics. There was always an air of ease between them, no strain, but this time— Mirko is serious.

Martín knew that the other shoe was bound to drop, that the groundskeeper would eventually discover their break-in and that the police would have to get involved. He just never thought that it would reach the papers, or that Mirko would find out. He is utterly unprepared to handle it.

His blessing comes in the form of an aloof-looking woman, who walks right by Mirko to address Martín, completely oblivious to the tension between the two men. 

"I'm looking for a book," she starts, and Martín swears that one day he'll use his tactical ' _in a bookstore?_ ' answer for that line too. The woman lets the sentence hang in the air for too long as she scrunches her brow but does not continue. 

Martín waits for a second more, then tells her sharply, "Good. Keep looking." and he pulls Mirko towards the back of the bookstore. 

The woman is stunned but quickly accepts the challenge and starts aimlessly looking around. With one last look at her, to check if she was far enough, Martín leans over to whisper to Mirko.

"I can explain."

"Please do."

Well. That line never paid off, because Martín did actually have to explain. He just really didn’t want to.

"Not here."

" _Yes_ here. What did you do? _Martín_ , what did you do."

"Okay. Yes. I did that. We did that."

"Holy fuck, Martín!"

"Shhh."

"What the fuck? That was real? The explosion. You told me it was a pretense, you told me you and Andres were fucking."

"Well. We are fucking too, if that helps?”

"If that helps? How could it help?”

"That part is—" _Not a lie._ "—true."

"What's gonna happen now? The article said they still have no suspects but that they're looking to find the stolen art. Please tell me you don't have it. Please tell me it's not in our apartment!"

"What? No, _I_ didn't take the art."

"I don't know if that's better or worse. Did you do all that just because he cajoled you into it? Did you do all of his dirty work for free? Or what, for a fuck?"

"Okay, first of all, I may be a slut but I'm not a _dumb_ slut, of course—"

"Umm," says the woman who'd somehow manifested herself right beside them without either of them noticing her. "I was wondering if you had this," she pointed at the latest edition of the _Petit Robert_ dictionary that she was clumsily flipping through, "but in Spanish."

"What." 

The woman is serious. She holds the book up, as though they hadn't both seen it. They had, since they had to stack 35 copies of it on the table by the entrance. 

"This, but in Spanish," she repeats, and Martín instantly stops worrying whether she'd heard anything. They’d be fine regardless.

"Madam, that's a French dictionary. Do you want a Spanish dictionary?"

The woman doesn't, in fact, want a Spanish dictionary. Or know what she wants. When she still doesn't understand that a French dictionary but in Spanish would be a Spanish dictionary, Mirko just concedes.

"No, I'm sorry. We don't have the Spanish Petit Robert." Primarily because it doesn't exist, but neither of them attempts to explain that to her again. 

"Oh. Do you think you'll get one soon?"

"Doubtful," says Mirko, the fucking angel, who stretches his arm to guide her to the languages section (instead of straight outside, as Martín would have) "but let me show you what other dictionaries we do have."

When the lost sheep leaves the bookstore empty-handed but having left her phone number for Mirko to call as soon as they did get a copy of a Spanish Petit Robert, Martín is uncomfortably waiting by the till. Mirko scrunches the paper with the number, then approaches Martín.

“You have to tell me everything.”

“Everything?”

“You lied to me! And you did some _unbelievably_ stupid shit! But most importantly, _you lied to me_!”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“That’s it, we’re closing early today.”

“No we’re not. It’s five PM. We’ll be fired before the _actual_ end of business day.”

“Fine. Then I don’t want to see your lying face until closing time, okay? Go organize the back room or something. _And_ you’re on sweeping duty.”

“What? You can’t tell me what to do. You’re literally not the boss of me.”

“I am if you want to eat anything nutritious ever again. You know you can literally get scurvy from eating nothing but your ramen. Tell me or I’ll never cook for you again.”

“You know what? Fine. Fine, you make a fair point. Whatever, I’ll be in the back. Good luck with rush hour!”

Mirko valiantly doesn’t speak to Martín at all until they get home - he does speak _at_ him when doing the closing books, but doesn’t properly address him until they’re home, hands washed and in the kitchen, where Mirko is putting on an apron.

“The truth.”

“Will you feed me while I tell you the truth?”

“I swear to god Martín, if you keep letting other people have this much power over you, you’ll get nowhere in life. But yes, I’ll start on a stir-fry.”

“I can wash the vedge.”

“Yeah, but you can also sit your ass down and tell me everything.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“I have faith in you. So— is Andrés even his real name?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Well, that’s encouraging.”

“I don’t know, okay? Maybe? And Sergio really is his brother. Half-brother.”

“Wait, Sergio is involved too?” Martín nods. “Sergio, the meek librarian.”

“Yep.”

“For some reason that surprises me the most.”

“Yeah, he’s surprised me too, he’s quite something. He’s basically the mastermind behind most of the things they do.”

Mirko turns slowly from the counter, knife still in hand when he rubs his forehead with his fingers.

“Things? There’s _more_ things? Not just the vineyard… thing?”

“Yeah. We’ve done another heist since.”

“Martín, oh my god.” He slaps the knife down, and it clatters on the counter for a few seconds before settling. “You’re going to get arrested. For real, you’ll do time. Need I remind you how hard you worked to get your diploma? What will you do with it in jail? Or as an ex-con. Please don’t get arrested, I can’t work with anyone else at the bookstore, and you know I’ve tried.”

“I don’t plan on working on the bookstore forever, you know.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah. Look, the guys know what they’re doing. They work like a machine, they don’t move in unless they have everything figured out, it’s rather impressive really. And they’ve been at it for quite a while, and look - no jail for either of them!” _Yet_ , he thinks but keeps to himself.

“And how do you envision this working out? You’ll be a career criminal? Does that seem like the type of thing that you retire peacefully from?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think that far into the future. For now, I’m just enjoying— everything.”

“Oh yeah, everything. Are you and Andrés really a thing?”

“We certainly are now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, we’ve been, ah—” Mirko has his back turned, chopping something with great skill. Martín makes a face to himself as he shrugs. “We started out sort of pretending that we were together, but it’s— _evolved_ as of late. Like, since this past weekend - late.”

“Honestly, good for you; it’s somewhat reassuring to know that you’re getting fucked both metaphorically and literally.”

“Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me. What you’re doing is extremely dangerous.”

“Yes, _daddy_.” Martín knows, it’s the benefit of their years of open communication and their particularly thin walls. He _knows_. 

Mirko half-turns, wide-eyed and furious.

“Don’t pull that shit on me, it’s not gonna work.” He’s dropping all the veggies into the wok with a loud sizzle. He sighs when he turns, laying back. “Please be safe?”

“I mean, I’m trying.” 

“And I don’t just mean wear protection, oh my god Martín, what are you, sixteen? Stop laughing, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, in unrelated news please remind me to get an STD panel.”

“Charming. But I don’t need to know.”

“Oh but you do, I know you do. He’s fucking _fantastic_ , Mirko. He spoiled me for other men, Jesus. And he’s kinky, I can’t stress enough how amazingly lucky I’ve struck it. Have you _seen_ him?”

“Wait, no. I don’t want to hear any of that, don’t try to distract me. You haven’t actually told me anything, you know. About the vineyard thing. Or, apparently, the other things.” He turns with a startle, looking for a spatula to stir the wok before anything burns. “You can tell me about that other stuff later.”

So Martín does, while Mirko’s masterfully seasoning the stir-fry before serving it. 

Throughout the day, Mirko asks him random things about the brothers, their plans and other details that even Martín feels like are too indecent to be spoken of inside the bookstore. It’s really strange that Mirko knows, and Martín realizes midway through the day that he should probably tell Andrés that Mirko knows. For some stupid reason, he doesn’t call him to let him know that he’s coming over, he just goes there as soon as they close up, and knocks at Andrés’ door with a heart full of hope and a head empty of thought.

Andrés answers, which Martín is grateful for. When he leans in for a kiss, right in the hallway after the door is closed, Andrés just gives him a quick peck on the lips and a quick, apologetic,

“Sergio’s here too.”

As if by magic, the man appears in the hallway just as his name is spoken. Martín is visibly peeved at the intrusion.

“Hey Sergio. Could you, um.” Sergio’s not picking up on the obvious vibe, and comes closer to them instead of going further away, as he should have. “Andrés and I need to talk.”

“I think that anything you two talk about might need to include me from now on.”

“Anything? I can think of a subject or two that you might not be interested in, judging by past discussions.”

“Oh. Is it about—” He finally seems to get the hint, a finger pointing between them now hanging limp in the air.

“Me fucking your brother? Not precisely. But there’s no need to be shy about it, we’re all adults here.”

The day that Martín will stop trying to rile Sergio up is the day his soul dies, he decides. Especially now since the meek librarian stopped being so meek, and started biting back. Martín loved it. Sergio narrowed his eyes.

“Do you have siblings?”

“Yeah, a sister.”

“What would you say if I slept with your sister?”

“I’d say good luck with that, her husband’s a fighter. And also yay, congrats on finally popping your cherry!”

“I’m serious. Whatever you’re doing has wider ramifications now. But okay, I don’t need to kn _ow everything_.”

“Alright, then maybe give us a minute?”

Sergio nods curtly, turning on his heel and finally getting lost. As soon as he seems safely out of earshot, Martín turns back to Andrés.

“Mirko knows.”

Andrés blinks at him for a moment before turning his head to the side.

“Sergio. You need to come back for this.”

They take their little gathering out of the hallway and into the living room, where Martín sinks into one of the armchairs, alone, his hands clasped on the cushions in an illusion of control. 

“It’s in the paper.” He doesn’t specify what’s in what paper, but the brothers seem to need no clarification.

“I know,” says Andres, and Sergio nods. “Our sources in the police let us know as soon as they discovered it. But everything is under control, they have nothing. And it will stay that way.”

“As for Mirko,” says Sergio, taking a seat on the couch beside him. “We’ve been expecting that. We have a plan. More of a proposal, really.”

Martín may like to seem like he’s in some sort of control of what’s happening, but finally begins to understand how many things actually just… happened to him. He’d been swept up by all of it, by this fascination, by this infatuation that seemed, despite his better instincts, to turn into something else entirely. He doesn’t know what’s happening, so when he seems to be offered a hand, he takes it.

“What kind of a proposal?”

“You know that Mirko’s been in the army, right?”

“Yes, for a couple of years before he decided to change everything and went back to university. What about it?”

“Well, Andrés and I, we have a more— ambitious plan. By orders of magnitude bigger than anything we’ve ever done. We’ll need a team. And Mirko, well; a man with his set of skills is exactly what we need to make it happen.”

“You want to recruit Mirko too?”

“We do,” confirmed Andrés, who looked just as confident as Sergio had gotten. 

“What makes you think he’ll accept?”

“We know he will. Remember, you said yes too.”

The chill that runs through him when he realizes that he may have been played as well seems to pin him in place. 

“Were you—” He turns to Andrés, no longer caring of whatever facade he’s projecting. He’s careful when he asks, but just a little afraid of the answer. “Were you trying to recruit me with the vineyard thing?”

“Yes.” 

_Everything I’ve told you after the vineyard was the truth_ , Andrés had said. No lies. Martín maybe needed a little lie right then.

“So I blew a hole in a wall as a test?”

“No. A job offer. You seemed to be into it.”

“And the art. Did you sell it?”

“No. No traces. The art hasn’t been moved to a buyer yet. We’re _safe_. That was true.”

“What about the hard disk? What was that?”

“That was a failure on my part, I’m afraid,” says Sergio. “We shouldn’t have moved up the plan, some of the information we received wasn’t up-to-date. But we’re safe with that too, I even disabled near-by cameras. We course-corrected in time.”

Martín nods in a daze, because all the reassurances that he’s received, although he rationally knew it should make things easier to handle, weighed on him all the more. He needed a drink.

“I need alcohol with this headache, please. And food. And a hole to crawl into and die.”

He sleeps at Andrés’ place that night, in his bed and in his arms, and that seems to have been the cure to all his ailments because when he wakes in the morning, he feels like he can breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the queen of Varying Chapter Lengths, all I can say is.... I'll post the next chapter sooner? XD
> 
> Also - the Petit Robert thing.... may or may not have happened IRL.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you to know that’s not how I got through university, okay?”
> 
> Andrés has a full belly-laugh at this, the bed shaking under them both.
> 
> “I’ve seen your transcript, I never once thought you’d have the stamina to go through the entire teacher roster.”

Mirko’s been gone for over three hours. Right into the lion’s mouth. He did not want Martín there, despite not being fully clear on _why_ he was asked to meet the brothers. But the die has been cast, and Martín was left alone in their shitty apartment, wondering how that particular conversation would go. 

Martín jumps from the bed when he hears the keys rattling in the lock. He tosses aside the book he was merely pretending to read for the past hour or so, and speed-walks to the front door when it finally opens. Mirko walks in, looking exhausted and serious. 

“So?”

“I have so many things to say to you.”

“Are any of them nice?”

“I can’t believe you put me in this situation. I can’t believe you put _yourself_ in this situation!” 

“How did it go?”

“Did you know what they wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes.”

Mirko’s stewing - well, by his standards, at least. He goes straight to the fridge, gets a beer, and very ostensibly doesn’t get one for Martín. He gets his own damn beer, takes the bottle opener from Mirko, pops the cap then sits in one of the chairs, hoping that Mirko would take the hint and sit beside him. He doesn’t, he paces in front of the kitchen window, taking long swigs from his bottle. Martín can’t handle the pressure.

“What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

It’s a Saturday when their little band of nerds and miscreants meets for lunch. Two booksellers, a librarian, and a pretentious writer having a surprisingly inconspicuous conversation in public, discussing their plans for the evening - roles, exact times, the lot. If anything, it’s a good team building exercise, and Mirko’s _acing_ it. He actually gets along well with Sergio, had done so from when they knew each other professionally - well, from their official professions - and it seems to translate seamlessly into the more criminal side of things, too. 

Martín however, is distracted. He knows the plan by heart, of course he does, and he almost (half) pays attention too. But primarily, he’s busy playing footsie with Andrés under the table, batting his lashes as he purses his lips to sip suggestively at his lemonade straw, even considering briefly whether there was a sexy way in which to eat salad. Andrés valiantly ignores all his flirting, even though the smile on his face is a good hint that he’s aware of it all. When they finally get up from their table, Andrés pulls his arm, keeping him a few steps back, behind everyone else. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Flirting?”

“That’s—” Andrés looks at him, half surprised, half amused. He shakes his head. “We’re going to my place.”

“But I have to—” He turns to point at Mirko, but Andrés digs his fingers into his arm so suddenly that he almost squeaks, “go and change?” Andrés lets go of his arm before it gets awkward and Martín smooths his t-shirt, trying to look dignified. “I need to go home and get into the whole mindset, you know?”

“You can come to my place, and I can get into your ass.”

Martín’s momentarily stunned. He never gets tired of hearing Andrés talk, especially when it’s that kind of talk. 

“Compelling offer, where are you parked?”

“Tell me again why it has to be you.”

“Because they’ve seen my face and I’ve been their sole point of contact so far.”

That’s a good point, but Martín still rolls his eyes. He knows that Andrés has done far more dangerous things in the past, and he’s seen firsthand that he can take care of himself, but still, he worries. Stupid personal relationships, right? 

“And we have four hours? Five?

“Three.”

“Let’s make it three and a half?”

“Let’s not. I have a meeting, it’s a whole affair, can’t be late. You should know, you’re part of it too.”

“Hmm,” Martín’s precariously perched on one foot, accidentally pulling the hem of his jeans along with the sneakers. He manages to flash a good bit of thigh before he almost loses his balance and has to bring his foot safely down. He was _maybe_ a bit too eager, what with the time constraints and all. With the shoes pushed off and out of the way, Martín starts working on his jeans. “Maybe I wasn’t listening.”

“You were there.”

“I wasn’t paying attention. What are you gonna do, spank me?”

“...asks man who is about to be spanked,” Andrés picks up with impeccable timing. 

“Promise?”

“Don’t make me put you over my knee.”

“Um.” 

“Unless you _want_ me to put you over my knee, in which case - take off that ridiculous tee.”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

“Don’t be a brat.”

Naturally, Martín wants nothing more than to be a brat. He looks down at the front of his shirt, with the big bold “I’M WITH STUPID” standing out in white lettering, then looks back at Andrés. 

“What? I left home with Mirko, I didn’t anticipate I’d be coming home with you.”

“Leave it on and you don’t get to come at all tonight. And I don’t mean to the meeting.”

The shirt flies to the side of the room, briefly catching on Martín’s arm as he tosses it away.

“Pants too?” He asks, fingers hooking into the waistband.

Andrés shakes his head then sits on the side of the bed, looking up with a smile. He nods towards his lap, wordlessly, and Martín feels his knees turning just a little bit jelly. This particular scenario had definitely helped him at key points under his sheets (or in the shower) even before he’s met Andrés with his hot-teacher vibe. He almost teleports himself by the bed, looking eagerly at Andrés. 

“How do you want me?”

“Hard and begging.”

Before Martín can make any one of the stupid puns he had on the tip of his tongue, Andrés points to his lap again. 

“Yes, sir,” he says, eyes downcast and peering through his lashes. “I’m sorry for not paying attention.”

He sits across Andrés’ lap, feeling for a second silly instead of unbearably horny, as he thought he would feel. For all he’s imagined it, he never seemed to think of the logistics of getting in position - so he wriggles and flails for a bit before a hand oh his lower back pushes him in place. Martín settles with his dick caught right against Andrés’ thigh and knees digging into his belly. He’s still restless, but the voice coming from above quickly brings him back into the game.

“Hands on the floor.” 

Andres pulls the hem of his pants, bringing them down along with Martín’s boxers. His brain initially rejects this view on gravity and he can’t figure out which up is up, but finally coordinates himself enough to lift his hips and to allow his clothes to slide down his thigh. He is now across Andrés’ lap, with his ass out and his pants pooled around his ankles, and he can’t stop smiling, because this is _awesome_.

“Should I give you a number, or do you want me to keep going until you tap out?”

Great choices the two of them, but Martín’s a scientist and does not want to agree to something he hasn’t really experienced before - what if Andrés’ hand was, like, really heavy? Wait, no, that would be— 

“Fine, I’ll choose for you. You get ten, because I’m nice.”

‘Nice’ and quite hard, since Martín can feel his erection starting to dig into his belly. He is unprepared for the first blow that lands with great accuracy just on the crease of his thigh, where the skin is thinner and more sensitive. Andrés knows what he’s doing, Martín didn’t know why he was surprised but there he was - mouth and eyes open wide, and an enthusiastic twitch of his cock.

Andrés is either the relentless type, unwilling to let Martín have one moment of respite (which he was very much into) or the efficient type, who was aware that they were somewhat on a clock and had to eventually get other shit done, too (which he was also into). Either way, he doesn’t stop, the second slap landing right on top of the first one, and the third, even sharper, stung on the opposite cheek.

“Too much?” Andrés asks, carefully, when Martín still hasn’t released his breath. 

“No.” It’s a small sound, he hears himself distorted with the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Good.”

And then there’s three blows, in quick succession, one-two-three, landing hard on the curve of his ass. It hurts, undeniably so, it stings in little pinpricks that bubble on his skin, but he’s not given a lot of respite before Andrés pushes his head back down - he doesn’t recall moving, but he must have - and his other hand lands so, _so_ close to his balls. He whimpers. His dick, the traitor, has very strong positive feelings about what just happened, twitching into Andrés’ leg that he’s totally not grinding against. 

Andrés doesn’t comment on that, but he adjusts his tactics accordingly. Every new blow lands around the same spot, nearly grazing his balls, so dangerously close that Andrés has to once more push on the back of his neck to keep him bent over and not squirming. He lets his palm caress the already smarting skin on Martín’s ass, before striking one last time, hard enough that Martín chokes on a moan.

“Fuck, Andrés—” 

The hand that was keeping his head down lifts, but Martín can’t move even if he tries. He’s stuck to the place, and he can feel Andrés’ hands caress his asscheeks, then gently pull them apart. The rush of shame that floods him fills his head with cotton, and he nearly stutters.

“What—”

“Can you reach the night-stand?”

Andrés, ever the utilitarian. Martín tries, it’s a whole (unsteady) operation where Andrés sort of leans his knees towards the nightstand, helping Martín stretch far enough to open the drawer. He feels around until he finds the familiar tube, retrieves it then gets back in position, where Andrés takes it from him. All in all a very smooth success for someone who currently had more blood trapped in his cock than actually circulating his brain.

“You’ve been such a good boy for me, Martín. Want me to open you up like this?”

“Yes‽” He wasn’t going for either sarcastic or annoyed, but accidentally nailed both of them.

“I’m not sure I like that tone on you. Maybe the blood’s gone to your head; want to lay on the bed?”

“No, this is fine.”

“Really, let me—” Andrés gets a hand under his chest and maneuvers him so that his torso now lies on the mattress, and the thumping in his ears lessens slightly. “Better?”

Martín goans, letting the rush of dizziness pin him into the mattress. It was significantly better. “Thank you.”

Andrés opens him up patiently, all the while Martín’s just trying not to lose it at the sharp burn of his skin when it tightens with each push of Andrés’ fingers. It’s _a lot_ , and soon he’s squirming again.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Martín starts, when he feels like he can’t take any more teasing without dying. He pushes himself up on his hands, determined to just get things moving already. “I don’t need _that_ much prep.”

Andrés doesn’t chastise him for moving - they’ve apparently forgotten all about their little roleplay - he lays back, one hand folded under his head, allowing Martín to sort of army-crawl to a more comfortable direction in the bed where he turns, hissing when his pulsing skin touches the rough sheets. 

“Hurts so good, doesn’t it?” Andrés asks. He’s moving to sit on top of Martín, and when his body slides over Martín’s, his cock paints a wet trail up his abdomen. Naturally, he looks down. It twitches, like it knows it’s watched and Martín swallows almost comically hard.

“Yeah okay, gimme,” he holds his hand out in Andrés’ direction, opening and closing his hand in a universal “give me the thing” sign. The thing being the lube that Andrés does find again and press into his palm. “Maybe a little bit more lube won’t hurt.”

Wise choice, he congratulates himself silently as Andrés slides into him, eyes fixed downward to where they were joined. Martín can’t see a thing from this angle, which is one of the many reasons he loves to top, but as things were, with his knees pushed up and being thoroughly railed, he couldn’t focus on keeping his eyes open even if he tried. He thought that _he_ was worked up; well it seemed to be nothing compared to Andrés’ unrelenting vigor, who seemed to be unaware or uncaring of the fact that Martín’s ass was on fire in more than one way.

“You’re so hot,” Andrés whispers against his neck and Martín is so close to saying something dumb like, ‘ _you know i_ t’, but then Andrés clarifies, “where I spanked you, your skin _burns_ —”

Martín feels a little dizzy with the fresh memory of having one of his kinks so thoroughly validated. He’s always had good sex, he was a man who always seemed to know what he wanted and how to get it, but Andrés proved to be this surprising well of fantasies come true. 

He thinks that he gets a break when Andrés pushes himself up on his knees, so he takes a deep breath and desperately wants to say something, but all the air leaves his lungs when Andrés roughly pushes back into him. For someone this new to the joys of gay sex, Andrés is a natural at finding the prostate - Martín _has_ to inquire about that when his cognitive functions return - and hits it with every hard thrust. And he knows what he’s doing; he’s smiling in that overly confident, lopsided way that he does, then has the audacity to ask, ‘ _good?_ ’ 

Martín can only nod and claw at the headboard, trying to get some purchase, some leverage, anything - but, before he knows it, he feels the irreversible pull of orgasm. Panicked, he grabs his dick and barely manages a couple of strokes before he’s coming all over himself with a pathetic whimper and a miserable look in his eyes because _what the fuck Martín, you’re not a teenager anymore, what the—_

Andrés hasn’t stopped, not when Martín was coming, not even now when he was beginning to come down. He isn’t in a talkative mood, uncharacteristically, and tragically pulls out and gets on his feet, motioning for Martín to follow - a tall order for someone who’s been through what he just has. But Andrés still urges him to stand so he does his best, getting up on shaky feet and looking questioningly in the brown eyes that have so much faith in him, and so little regard for his current state. 

Martín’s first thought, when his back hits the wall, is that Andrés’ aim has to improve - that definitely was the edge of the window digging into his spine - and the second— 

“What’s with you and vertical surfaces?”

“Hold on.” And then he’s lifted, smacked right back against that edge, and then his back is slowly dragged against the wall to an area that has 100% fewer windows. “Are you complaining?” 

Failing to come up with anything, Martín shakes his head. He gasps when Andrés pushes back inside him, then hikes his other leg up and supports his weight like he wasn’t a fully-grown man. Not something he’s quite done before, he thinks before the ‘thinking’ part of his brain shrinks under the weight of the ‘feeling’ part, but definitely something he’s willing to try again. He feels weightless and helpless and in desperate need of some leverage. 

“How are you this—” His eyes are fixed to the ceiling, he’s staring at nothing and is basically just hanging on, “ _—strong_?” 

It’s a very much uncalculated risk to let go of his grip on Andrés’ shoulders and to slap one hand on the wall under him to steady himself, but it’s a risk he feels is worth taking since Andrés has apparently taken it onto himself to pretty much nail him into that wall. He’s growling in a deep and vicious way, thrusting so hard that Martín worries he’ll leave a depression in the wall, all the while keeping this aggressive eye contact until he suddenly buries his head in Martín’s neck. He comes like that, without giving Martín a single chance to catch his breath, fucking himself through his orgasm and right into the filthiest of kisses as soon as his muscles unlock. 

Martín’s dazed when he’s finally back on the mattress. It takes him a few long seconds to remember how he got there in the first place, his mind still circling around the earlier scene of him over Andrés’ lap - why was everything with this man even better than his fantasies? He turns to look at Andrés who effortlessly lays down beside him acting as though he hasn’t just finished doing continued and strenuous exercise. 

It’s quiet. They’re both catching their breaths, sweaty and sticky, but neither seems too rushed to move and get cleaned. Martín feels like he could fall asleep like that - if he pulled that sheet over himself, he’d be out before his head hit the pillow, he was certain - but doesn’t trust himself to not wake up the next morning if he did. He fights to stay away despite the post-coital exhaustion that’s settling in, heavy and insistent. 

“So,” Andrés lazily turns to his side, “Is it safe to say that you learned your lesson?”

“Um.” He has to unwind a mile-long mental thread to remember. _Right_. The whole teacher thing. He nods and hopes that he won’t be asked for details since that particular portion of his brain hasn’t yet thawed enough to be accessed.

“You’re quite the good student.” 

He was. Martín was nothing if not a quick learner, with a determination so strong that it was bordering on discipline. When it came to his studies, at least; he was still a giant mess in all other aspects of his life. But studying? It was his _jam_. He was constantly (and obnoxiously) first in his year— 

And then an insidious little thought makes itself known, and Martín automatically jumps to his own defense, unchallenged. 

“I want you to know that’s not how I got through university, okay?”

Andrés has a full belly-laugh at this, the bed shaking under them both.

“I’ve seen your transcript, I never once thought you’d have the stamina to go through the entire teacher roster.”

Martín’s first instinct is to argue that yes, he absolutely _would_ have had the stamina; some classes had the same teacher, and if he didn’t count TAs, literally going through the roster would have totally been achievable. It probably wouldn’t have helped his case, so, for a change, he doesn’t argue. Instead, he props up on one elbow, looking Andrés up and down. God damn, did that whole thing _work_ for him in every single way, and then some. The confidence, even without the added bonus of dominance, the fact that he had the body of a Greek statue, the dark scatter of hair on his chest, — _ngh_. And the little happy trail - yes, he’s staring openly now, tracing his eyes down to that gorgeous dick, now spent but already chubbing up, half-hard, and the dark fuzz surrounding it, it was so… _there_ , but still carefully groomed— Martín feels a little dizzy with arousal, already, and he takes a deep breath.

“How much time do we have left?”

Andrés moves to look at his watch.

“Well over an hour.”

“Reckon you can come in less than an hour if I fuck you?”

Andrés takes a shuddering inhale, his pupils getting just a fraction larger. 

“Based on past experience, I’d say there’s a good chance.”

“Race you,” Martín winked, turning around to look around the sheets for the lube while Andrés opens the drawer to take out another condom, when he gets an idea. He sits on his haunches straddling Andrés, looks at the lube, then at the ceiling, then decides to go for it anyway, even if it didn’t end up getting either of them off - if anything, it could possibly make Andrés do his best to finish the meeting sooner, to get back to him and get the job done. 

He pops open the cap of the lube with a loud _snick_ , then asks for Andrés’ palm, who offers it without thinking. Martín squirts a glob of lube on his fingers, then leans back and looks at him, expectant. 

“Come on, pretty boy. Give me a show.” He spreads his own thighs a little wider, gives himself a couple of slow strokes. “You told me you did this in the shower. Show me.”

Martín briefly closes his eyes and says a prayer to whatever god was facilitating their encounter (probably a Greek one, they were horny enough) because Andrés actually listens. He does avert his eyes, which Martín would object to but forgets to when Andrés plants one knee up, slides his fingers between his legs, and sinks one into himself like it’s nothing. Martín _sighs_ , pitifully. 

“Tell me—” he starts, then gets distracted by the way Andrés pumps into himself in a slow and sticky glide. He feels himself getting cross-eyed so he blinks, trying to remember. Oh god. Yes. “Tell me exactly what you thought about while you were doing this.”

“I— I was in the shower. I had you right there, bent over the wall.”

“Interesting choice given the activities, but I’m into it.”

“Other times it was you who took me against the wall, water running—” he stops, withdraws his finger then goes in with two. “The first time we went to dinner, I remember the first bite you took out of your steak; the sound you made. God, I replayed that sound so many times in my head.”

Andrés gasps, raising his back off the mattress with eyes widened. His fingers are still, but then he moves his wrist, curls his fingers again, and his hips fly off the sheets. 

“ _Oh._ ”

Martín realizes it’s a very real possibility that Andrés will come like that - and he doesn’t mind that at all. He feels around the mattress until he finds the lube again, then squeezes a little more on Andrés’ fingers. He takes the encouragement, working himself harder now and huffing out little moans. 

Martín settles back on his heels but he’s given up on not touching himself, working his dick with the express intention to come. 

“Can you come like that?”

“I thought—”

“Nope, you’re doing this; you’re going to make yourself come, I’m going to watch and then I’m going to come all over you.”

“Okay,” says Andrés, more than a little winded. 

“Want to know what _I_ think about?” Martín asks, closing his eyes to better capture those images again. He hopes that Andrés was nodding, because he certainly didn’t make a sound. Martín continues, nonetheless. “I’m thinking that one day, after hours, we can go back to the bookstore and you can fuck me right against the art section.”

“Why the—” Andrés stops moving his fingers for a second. “Why the art section?”

“Heavy books, sturdier shelves.”

Andrés starts laughing.

“Don’t laugh, you love it.”

“Yeah,” Andrés concedes, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “I do. God, I—” and he stops with the breath in his chest and the words in his throat. He seems lost for a second, but then grabs his dick with his free hand and starts to move his fingers again. “Tell me more.”

“You know the table right at the entrance?” It would be hard not to, since it’s literally hard to miss. Or go around. A hilariously wide thing that Mirko and him called ‘the eternal table’ because they stacked it with an implausible array of things over the years and, despite wobbling pitifully every time, it never faltered. Martín wants to test it to its very limits. “I want to see if it can take both our weight. It probably could, but— Imagine fucking until we broke the furniture.” We have it on _inventory_ , he thinks, and shudders internally at the possibility of actually getting a new, proper table instead. “You wouldn’t stop even after we were among its splintered remains, buried under piles of books.” 

God damn, _no_ , he has to stop thinking about it since he doesn’t want furniture to give him random boners in the workplace. He can’t stop though, because neither is Andrés - he’s watching Martín with a rapt face and a kink in his brow, making the filthiest open-mouthed moans on the background of his lube-slick fingers sliding and squelching. 

“Sometimes I imagine you’re in the back-room with me.” Martín is on autopilot now, his mouth a filterless portal to his deepest fantasies. “There’s a couple of people inside the bookstore, Mirko’s busy with someone in the front, and you got me right against the door, and you fuck me real slow and tell me we have to be quiet. But I don’t do quiet, you know that. Your ridiculous— what is it, pocket square? You stuff it in my mouth, and you have one of my arms, it’s— behind my back, twisted like you’re putting handcuffs on me,” fuck, _handcuffs_. He loses his train of thought for just a moment. “And the door is cold against my face, and your cock is hot inside me, and you don’t stop, Andrés, not even when the door fucking _rattles_ under us.”

Andrés hums, his hand speeding up on his dick. He’s nearly gone, judging by the nearly hurt look in his eye and the way his bitten lips shine, parted in a silent moan.

“What I’d really love though, is to have you on your knees for me.” Andrés hasn’t gotten his mouth on Martín’s dick yet, and he was _dying_ for it to happen already. “I bet you’d be so good at it. That mouth of yours is talented enough,” Andrés seems close, he’s so tense, body coiled tightly. “I would come right down your throat,” Martín says, and he feels it in the pit of his stomach that he’s close too. “God, I could come all over your pretty face—” 

Andrés’ whole body locks for a second and then he’s coming and his asshole is twitching around the fingers he still has greedily buried inside himself. Martín groans at the sight, barely manages to get up on his knees and fall forward on his hand as he’s coming straight against Andrés’ belly, across his chest and the dark hairs scattered there. 

“God _damn_.”

He’s well beyond caring when he drops on top of Andrés despite the mess between them. Andrés makes a face, but he isn’t moving either, so they just stay there until they catch their breath.

“Time?” he asks, and when Andrés isn’t making any move to look, he takes his wrist himself, turning his head to look.

“Oh, we’re good. I’ll take a quick shower first, then I’ll go back to my place and change.”

“I’ll loan you one of my shirts, I can call Sergio to pick you up from here instead.” He’s getting up, dropping his feet to the ground and looking at the stickiness already hardening on his chest. “You could leave some of your clothes here, you know.”

“Are you asking me to move in?”

“I’m offering you a drawer, so unless you can live in that— it’s just a drawer. And you don’t have to.”

“Nah, I will. Thank you, I love how efficient you are. Loads to learn from you.” He’s almost out the door. “You can leave some stuff at my place too!”

“Yes,” says Andrés, in a pleasant tone but with a face that showed precisely how much he wasn’t going to do it.

Sergio picks him up from outside Andrés’ apartment and does not comment on that particular change of plans. Andrés wasn’t worried about the evening to come, but Sergio, now that Martín can see him, is _aggressively_ not worried, which of course makes Martín’s heart race. It takes him a superhuman amount of strength not to ask about it until they get there, but once they’re parked, Martín doesn’t hold it in anymore.

“Is there anything that can go wrong tonight?”

“Any number of things,” says Sergio, matter-of-factly. He takes a look at the clock on the console, then squints in the rear-view mirror. “But whatever happens, we’re ready for it.”

“Okay, but what exactly can go wrong?”

“In theory, nothing _should_ go wrong. It’s just a job offer, they either take it or they don’t. They could, for some obscure reason, be offended at our plan and numbers, but I know we’re above market level. Not in a way that stands out, but in a way that says, ‘we sincerely appreciate your implication and discretion.’ So that route is unlikely. From what I’ve seen of the guys and from all my research into them, they seem pretty reliable. For mercenaries,” he adds.

“That’s it?”

“I heard no police chatter, so they’re not being watched, although I do have my doubts about the venue.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. It just makes me uneasy.”

“Are you sure it’s not the fact that it’s a metal concert and it’s just not your scene?”

Sergio scoffs.

“I have a couple of aces down my sleeve. Look, there’s Mirko,” he points to the rearview mirror, and Martín leans over him to squint out the window. “Could you be more conspicuous, Martín?”

“Sorry,” he leans back into his seat, waiting for the man that Sergio claimed was Mirko to come into view. The general shape of him was definitely Mirko’s, but everything else— Martín stares as his roommate comes from behind the car and strolls right past them without a look in their direction.

Martín worried briefly about how Mirko could fit in at a metal concert since of all his graphic tees, none had any sort of skeletons or bands heavier than maybe Muse. Not at all the kind of fauna that went to this type of screamo concert that the mercenaries have chosen for their meeting. But Mirko thought laterally, it seemed, and absolutely nailed the look. Martín didn’t know that his roommate had a leather harness, for example. Or a host of assorted wide leather cuffs to accentuate the swell of his thick arms. He’s never seen those really tight jeans that he was wearing, the ones that hugged his ass _just so_ when he moved. And the way he walked? His usual laid back demeanor was replaced by an unmistakable air of danger, and a walk that only seemed to say, ‘get too close and I’ll fuck you up’. 

So Martín stares, a dumb smile spreading on his face at the very mixed signals that were firing into his brain; he stares at Mirko as he looks both ways, crosses the street, and then walks straight into the club.

“Andrés will be here in twenty minutes,” he announces unnecessarily, trying to shift his focus back to his boyfriend. His boyfriend who is going alone and unarmed in a potentially dangerous situation.

“It’s going to be fine,” said Sergio. “It’s just a talk, and you know talking is Andrés’ strong suit.”

“Anything else I should be worried about?”

“Not if you keep your eyes peeled.” Sergio gets up from his seat and walks, head lowered, to the back of the van to look through some files. Martín tries to get up as well but Sergio gives him a stern look so he settles back down.

“Oh, there’s our three little mercenaries!”

Sergio approaches the front seats, leaning slightly to catch a better view.

“They seem unarmed,” adds Martín, feeling oddly relieved.

“That’s your professional opinion?”

Martín rolls his eyes, but then brings his chin down at the realization.

“But what if they _are_ armed?”

“They probably are.”

“And why couldn’t Andrés be armed as well?”

“Because he’d get shot.”

“Right.”

Sergio pats the headrest before heading back to his papers.

“Relax, get your head in the game, I need you to focus. Also, I have contingency plans.”

Martín turns around at this new piece of information.

“Contingency plans? Don’t you think I should know about them too?”

“The people who need to know, know. If you’ll turn into one of those people, I’ll bring you up to speed. Is your earpiece in?”

Martín nods, pushing at the plastic in his ear. The earpiece was their only way to find out what was going on inside, all through Mirko. But they’d have to keep communication to a minimum as to avoid suspicion, so they probably wouldn’t hear from him until Andrés got there.

When it’s just two minutes before the meeting, a car pulls up at the end of the street. Not a familiar car, but it has a more than familiar driver - it’s Andrés, who’s getting out, clicking his keys and adjusting his cuffs while pointedly not looking at their van. Martín doesn’t like that he’s going in without any sort of weapons, without any means of communication, but he doesn’t say that out loud (again) because he doesn’t want Sergio to launch into his old ‘personal relationship’ spiel (again). So he just watches him go inside the loud club, during a very loud metal concert, wearing one of his anachronistic three-piece suits and not giving a fuck about it.

After a few tense minutes, Mirko’s voice comes over the earpiece in Martín’s ear, making him jump. “He’s made contact. They’re on the balcony and they seem to be talking. Calmly.”

From there, all they have to do is to wait. They’re parked strategically, with a good view of both the main entrance to the club and the alley where the backdoor opens. If Andrés is right, the meeting shouldn’t take longer than an hour, and hour and a half. 

At around the twenty-minute mark, static starts hissing in Martín’s earpiece, and Mirko’s tense voice comes barely audible through the loud music.

“I’ve lost them.”

And Martín’s stomach drops.

“What? What do you mean?” He springs out of his seat and scoots over to the driver’s side before Sergio has time to react. He’s buckling in, turning the key in the ignition; his body moves on autopilot despite not having driven in years. Sergio settles in the seat beside him just in time to not topple over, as they drive off maybe a little jerkier than Martín intended. Sergio’s holding on to the handle above the door, pressing on his earpiece.

“Soldier. What’s happening?”

The van pulls into the road and approaches the venue, but there seems no movement at any of the club doors.

“Mir—” Martín stops himself. “ _Soldier_. Speak to me.” 

“They’ve left the first floor landing, but I don’t see them coming down the stairs. I’m going up there.”

Martín drives once around the small block, but there’s no movement on any of the streets, barely any cars and no one leaving the club.

“Soldier,” Sergio said. _Soldier_. Technically true, but it still fucked with Martín’s mind to think of Mirko like that. “What’s happening?”

Minutes pass, their van idling seemingly forever until there’s movement at the back door of the club — it’s Mirko. 

“You don’t have them?”

There’s a small delay between when Mirko’s lips move and when his words spill into Martín’s ear, and he looks at the figure on the sidewalk with a horrified fascination. He turns to Sergio, hopeful that the usual brains had any of his usual answers.

“What’s happening?”

Mirko’s gone back inside already, so Martín circles right back around the venue even though he’s aware of how suspicious they must start to look. He can’t really focus on anything, he can’t gauge how much it’s been since Andrés went inside, since Mirko told them he was gone; he was beginning to think that maybe they could have missed them, somehow, when they were driving around. Unless they were still inside—

“They’re not here and I can’t explain how they could’ve left without my seeing them. I checked everywhere. They’re gone.”

Sergio gets up from his seat and steps back, holding on to the roof of the van until he reaches one of the screens. Martín can sort of see him in the rearview mirror, plugging a couple of wires then typing something on a narrow keyboard.

“His phone is still in here,” he says, into his earpiece.

“Yeah, just found it,” came Mirko’s voice. “They’re not here.”

Sergio returns to his seat up front. He sighs, clicks his ear. “Plan Helsinki is up.” Then, to Martín- “Drive.”

So Martin pulls into the main road, looking at the fork in the road ahead of them.

“Go right,” says Sergio, “left takes us to the city center and that doesn’t seem like a place you’d take a hostage. We’ll circle left, get back here and then to the safehouse, where we’ll meet Mirko. Best case scenario, Andrés is already there.” 

Martín’s heart is pounding in his ears, having gotten stuck at one word - _hostage_. 

“Keep an eye out. Hey! Martín, focus.” Sergio must have noticed his pallor. “I need you to keep an eye out. They arrived on foot?” When he gets Martín’s nod, he continues. “That doesn’t exclude the possibility that they had a car ready nearby. You remember their files, know what they look like?”

Martín nods again, feeling like in one of those nightmares where he could not speak.

“Good. _Drive_ ,” he repeats, and even though he technically already was driving, Martín understands. He pushes the pedal gently and takes a deep breath to focus.

 _Hostage_. 

“I’ll keep an eye on license plates,” says Sergio, “both sides of the road. I can’t guarantee for timestamps, but I’ll get them in chronological order.”

“You can do that?”

Sergio ignores the question.

“As soon as we’re back at the safehouse, I’ll run them through the police database.”

“You can do— Okay,” Martín concedes and keeps an eye on the road. Andrés is a hostage and he needs them. “What’s plan Helsinki?”

“You’ll find out in due time.”

“I believe it’s—”

“ _Damn it, Martín_!” Then, calmly. “He‘s my brother. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the Queen of Chapters of Vastly Varying Lengths. 
> 
> And in news surprising no one, I might be juuuust a little bit burnt out...


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín gets up and walks out. Just like that, he’s expelled from the house, as if putting distance between him and Sergio would get him any further from the whole mess they seemed to find themselves in. He doesn’t know where he’s headed, he just goes where his feet are taking him, wired and worried and with enough pent-up energy that he starts into a sprint for a while. He only stops to puke in a bush by the side of the road, trembling and dangerously close to tears, and all he wants is to scream. But he swallows that scream, those tears; he takes a deep breath and turns on his heels, because he _will_ get them back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a joke about a flea and a motorcyclist's mustache that describes me writing smut in that it always ends up kinky. Oops? 
> 
> But anyway, this chapter will include some breath play and bruises and ~power dynamics.

_‘The sky is always blue when you are happy’_ , his grandfather used to say. Martín never understood what that meant until he was old enough to remember some of his school years, the time spent at university or in the bookstore - blue skies all around, shining above and spilling in through the windows. 

There are no blue skies on Martín’s horizon, he realizes with a chill; no clear skies, no easy smiles. He could lose both of them, he could lose Andrés _and_ he could lose Mirko. 

He watches Sergio, coiled so fucking tight that Martín’s own body _aches_ , sitting in front of his laptop and being so engulfed in what he is doing that he eventually stops noticing Martín and the way he paces around the room. Martín is restless, despite being inexplicably worn down. One second he feels like punching right through a wall and the next he feels like he just needs to slap himself a couple of times to snap out of it. 

Because Andrés is a hostage and Martín has to help. 

But he feels useless and paralyzed.

The safe house is isolated, it's quiet save for Sergio's fingers hitting the keys and Martín's soft footsteps. It's after midnight, and Andrés isn't there, and Martín feels like he's in well over his head.

This isn't him. He's not weak, he's never this lost, he's never helpless. It's all— 

Sergio. He was right after all.

Martín’s never seen him like this. He’s never seen the manic side of the otherwise perfectly controlled Sergio. Controlled and always _in_ _control_. He stares at his screen now, and he looks wounded but absolutely feral. Dangerous.

Because Andrés was a hostage, and Sergio wouldn't let anything happen to him.

“Fuck your rule,” Martín says, out loud all of a sudden, and even though he wasn’t even facing him, Sergio stops typing. He doesn’t start extruding the virtue of his solid rules and instead sighs, looking inexplicably older when Martín finally turns to him. “You were right, of course. What do I do now?”

“Stay calm, stay focused, keep an eye on your burner phone in case anyone makes contact.”

Obviously, that’s the thing to do. The best way to approach it. Martín knows it - he doesn't lack the logic, he’s just overwhelmed.

“He’s important to me,” Martín offers to the whole fucking world, unprompted. He regrets it as soon as he says it. It really changes nothing. 

“I know. I love him too.” 

Martín doesn't say anything - it was true. One second of silence, then Sergio turns back to his computer and starts typing again. Well, that was enough emotional vulnerability for a day, Martín thinks, trying to compose himself.

“What’s—” 

The phone in his pocket starts ringing, and Martín picks it up like it’s a tiny bomb, ready to explode. 

“Can you trace this?” he looks at Sergio, hopeful, holding the phone in his palms.

“I can try, but I doubt they’ll give us enough time.”

Three rings later, everything is set-up and Martín takes the call.

It’s Andrés, his voice is shaky and he’s breathing harshly into his phone. 

“They want Mirko. Unarmed and alone.” He coughs and spits. “Old warehouse by the Grand Light Cinema, thirty minutes.” 

Then the line cuts off. He doesn’t even need to ask if that was enough time judging by how Sergio slams his headset on the table. He picks his own burner phone and calls (presumably) Mirko - who was pointedly absent, Martín just notices.

“What’s Plan Helsinki?” he asks, because he _needs to know_.

“It’s Mirko. He’s supposed to go in there and get him out.”

“Did you know they were going to call?”

“No. I hoped they would—” he cuts off and talks into the phone. “They've made contact, and asked for you. Yes, specifically.” Then, after a brief pause, “Yes, still on. Is everything ready?" He nods at whatever Mirko must be saying. "Location’s the old warehouse by the Grand Light Cinema, in thirty minutes.” He carefully puts his phone on table, taking a few tries to arrange it parallel to the side of his laptop in a nervous gesture. He seems distracted but Martín rips him right out of whatever thought he was caught in.

“What’s he going to do?”

“He’s going to get Andrés back.”

Martín gets up and walks out. Just like that, he’s expelled from the house, as if putting distance between him and Sergio would get him any further from the whole mess they seemed to find themselves in. He doesn’t know where he’s headed, he just goes where his feet are taking him, wired and worried and with enough pent-up energy that he starts into a sprint for a while. He only stops to puke in a bush by the side of the road, trembling and dangerously close to tears, and all he wants is to scream. He swallows that scream, those tears, he takes a deep breath and turns on his heels, because he _will_ get them back.

Mirko _and_ Andrés. One of them Martín loved unconditionally and the other— well. It was different with Andrés. Not just in the sheer intensity of his feelings but in the absolute abandon with which Martín fell for him. He’s been in love before, but it was a thing that always ended up dulling like the edge of a knife; the more time passed, the more imperfections and faults Martín found in the other. While Andrés— 

Sergio is still slouched in front of his computer and were it not for the small army of red paper cranes crowding the table, Martín wouldn’t have known that he’d even moved at all. 

“Any minute now,” Sergio says, not taking his eyes from the screen. “Everything’s set, I’m waiting to hear from Mirko when they’re on their way back.” He addresses him like he hadn’t even left, like he was picking up a conversation that he’d been absent from. "It's going to be okay."

“That’s very confident of you.”

Sergio turns to him, and it’s the librarian he knew, it was

"This exact feeling right here, the one we're both feeling, is why we have that rule. For me, it's different. It's _my_ plan, and he's _my_ brother. At any given time that we're doing something like this, I stand to lose the most, but this is what we do; this is who we are. It's unfair for you to stand to lose this much too."

“Is he going to be alright?”

"We have Mirko."

“And what if something happens to Mirko?”

“Then there’s no point in either of us going in there anymore.”

 _Fuck_. 

“Is he—” Martín stops, because he can’t bring himself to think about this. Mirko was a soldier, yes, he knew that, but he’s never really _thought_ about what it meant. He’s been very tight-lipped about his years with the military, and Martín never pressed him, and with the years passing and them settling into their life, it was almost forgotten. But— But. “Is he going to kill those guys?”

“Ideally, no.”

“Then what’s the plan? Will he ask them nicely to release Andrés?”

Sergio stops folding the sheet and puts it on the table, the promise of a crane barely visible in the creases. 

“We know everything about these guys. And their families.” He makes an ill-timed break, giving Martín enough time to panic at the implications. “Plan Helsinki involves buying them out, essentially. All their debts paid, their children’s schools paid for, a nice financial cushion to keep them warm and completely uninterested in us for the foreseeable future.”

“So he goes there and offers them money?”

“Essentially.”

“Are we literally negotiating with terrorists?”

“Mercenaries, and it’s not a negotiation. It’s preempting the need for one.”

“What happens if they don’t like those terms?”

“We still know everything about their families.”

“Oh.”

“Civility is in everyone’s best interest though. I have faith in their dedication for the profession - and the reputation that they surely want to preserve.”

Time _crawls by_ while they wait. Martín stopped looking at the clock and Sergio sits ramrod straight in his chair, eyes fixed on their burner phones. Mirko was driving Andrés to the safe house, and the only reason why any of those phones would ring was if something went wrong - again.

The phones don’t ring, and then there’s the sound of a car approaching, the little rocks along the driveway crushed under tires, then car doors opening and falling shut. Footsteps. Martín feels like his body’s in a strange stasis where he can’t move, even though he knows he should, and he really wants to.

Andrés opens the door, but his other arm is draped around Mirko’s neck who follows behind, propping him up. They both look exhausted and grim when they coordinate their steps to get to the couch, where Andrés straightens up and lets go of Mirko. There’s a large, red crescent painted high on his cheek, his eyebrow and lips are split and running small trails of blood. There are specks of red peeking from the white napkin - _pocket square_ \- that is bunched-up in his breast pocket, there are long drops of blood on his shirt and vest, and Martín looks at him and can’t settle on which reaction to settle.

“It looks worse than it is,” says Mirko with a tight-lipped smile, looking between Martín and Sergio, and then adding softly, “probably.”

That was definitely Mirko, his best friend, it was his colleague. But also his _colleague_ , and Martín doesn’t really see him differently, even with all the things he’s learned recently.

“You’re okay.”

Martín says that to Mirko, stupidly, his relief momentarily greater than his worry at how crumpled Andrés’ was looking. It was relief but there was also a sincere excitement that Mirko was actually quite a badass. Martín realizes, once again, just how much he loves Mirko - in the truest, most sincere ways. But then there’s Andrés, and Andrés— 

“Are you okay?”

It’s Sergio, taking the words that should have been the first out of Martín’s mouth and addressing them to the right person. 

“Yes. Is the first aid kit there?” Andrés points to the bathroom and he starts walking, even before getting an answer.

“There’s one there too, yes.”

Andres walks in and closes the door, and Martín knows he should be there, and he _will_ be; he will take care of that in just a couple of minutes, but first— Mirko.

“You’re okay, I was expecting— I don’t know.” He looks at him, up and down, and he seems to not have one scratch on him. “More violence I guess.”

“No violence. We just had a chat, and then Andrés and I left.”

“Mirko.” Sergio approaches them, and there’s a small shift in Mirko - he straightens up, squares his shoulders. Like a soldier would, before reporting to a higher rank.

“Why did they want you?”

Which is a fantastically valid question but Martín can’t bring himself to care. He gets up off his couch, heads to the bathroom and knocks. He can hear the shower running, but hopes that Andrés can still hear him. He leans against the door to speak.

“Are you okay? Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

“...to which question?” 

“Just come in, okay.”

Martín does, he opens the door and steam cascades out before he steps in and closes it behind him. The water is hissing in the shower, with the curtain half-open and Andrés sitting on the edge of the tub, working on his shirt buttons. His fingers are trembling slightly and one button slips out of his hands a few times before it slides free of the loop. So Martín closes the space between them, stands in front of Andrés and starts working on the buttons himself, and the small _acceptance_ of his help makes Martín feel… things. Andrés lets his hands drop to his sides, resting them on the edge of the tub. He says nothing when Martín gets the shirt open, and dutifully moves his arms to help but stops with a painful hitch in his breath when he inhales deeper.

“Are you hurt?”

“Yes.”

“...a lot? Can I see? I mean help.” _Oh my god, what the fuck Martín._ “Can I help?”

“Will you help me get into the tub? I don’t think I’m quite up for a shower.”

Andrés isn’t kidding, he doesn’t look like he can do much standing. There’s bruising on his face, some angry-red blotches staining his ribs, darkening patches around his kidneys. A lot of the shine in Andrés, that usual composure and dignity of his are now morphed into a blank, worn-down stare. 

Martín helps him into the tub, helps him lay back and arranges his legs in the narrow space. The faucet is pouring straight onto Andrés’ feet, and Martín gently swirls the warmer water his way. Andrés doesn’t need to get _clean_ , there isn’t a lot of blood, no wounds to clean, no dirt to wash off. He needs the warmth to relax his muscles, and the hiss of the water to disconnect. They don’t talk, and Martín is just there, with his shirt cuffs messily folded above his elbows, sitting by the other end of the tub and squeezing a sponge in a hot rush of warm water down Andrés’ back every once in a while. 

When the tub fills high enough, Andrés slides down the edge until his shoulders sink just under the water, and he’s staring at Martin upside down from where he’s resting against the sloped edge. Martín can’t resist giving him a kiss like that, and Andrés’ mouth tastes like copper, like blood, and it only makes Martín press deeper. It’s been the longest hours of his life, when Andrés was gone. He’s been through so many emotions, some more murdery than others, but mostly it was this boundless feeling of fear and helplessness. 

He looks at Andres and finds himself in some sort of a trance kept going by the drip-drip-drip of the faucet echoing in the tiled room, and he can’t even react when Andrés suddenly slips under the water, eyes open, with little bubbles fizzling out of his mouth and small vines of red drifting up to the surface. He stays there for long enough that Martín’s own lungs burn, then pushes up, splashing water over the edges, over Martín’s thighs. 

The water’s almost cold when Andrés tries to get up. Martín grabs a towel, holding it over himself as he gets a shoulder under Andrés’ arm and helps him up, dries him down then drapes him in the towel and his own arms. All lights are off when they get out of the room - Mirko must have done his debriefing if Sergio wasn’t standing guard by the door - so they went straight to their room where they fall asleep way too quickly for the sort of night they’d had.

When he opens his eyes, Martín’s in that cellar again, at the vineyard. 

_Three seconds._

He’s alone in there, just him and the speeding rhythm of his heart thumping loudly in his ears. 

_Two._

The room is cleared, with all the boxes behind him; there’s nothing between him and that wall but vast, yawning _space_ that seems to get further away the more he stares. The air feels heavy.

_One._

The explosion tears through the wall and can see it all - the momentary bulge in the wall before the bricks fly outward, the dust and the sharp debris that cuts his arms and his face; Martín is in the middle of it all. He can barely breathe when the ringing stops and the dust begins to settle, and when he first uncovers his eyes, he can’t see a thing. He is alive though, and that was— 

The wall gapes to reveal more dust, and Martín is drawn to where it opens. He steps through, careful when bricks slide free of where he rests his hand, and when he’s on the other side—

Andrés. He’s standing there, in his three-piece suit, not a hair out of place, not a speck of dust on him. His back is turned and he looks—

He looks down, at a pile of rubble, and the man who lay buried underneath it.

It’s like he wills himself awake - Martín opens his eyes and takes a deep breath. Remnants of the dream still claw at him; like the eerie stillness of the air and the dust particles that were floating through the air, and- Mirko. Under the bricks. He has to blink against the darkness to get those images away, but the thought is still firmly placed in his mind. Mirko.

Andrés is asleep beside him, and Martín feels so many things when he looks at him - there’s the obvious relief, there’s worry, and there’s _that other thing_ , too. The one that’s complicated (for Martín, at least) - the _feelings_ -feelings.

Too many things, so he settles on just one for the moment - anger.

He shakes Andrés awake. 

Andrés groans, first sleep-groggy, then hurt. He makes one broken attempt to turn but stops when he breathes deeper and stiffens in pain and then settles back on the bed, arms limp by his side.

“What?” 

Right. The injuries. 

He deserved them, Martín decides.

“Was this all about Mirko?”

“What? What time is it?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Did you do all of this to recruit Mirko?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Like you did with me, at the vineyard. Did you plan all this to test him?”

“You mean did I get beat up and lose a large amount of money just so that Mirko would join our little team? _He already said yes_. And I value my face and my kidneys more than I value having him on our team. No offense, he’s pretty good and all, but no. This wasn’t a test.”

“Then what was it?”

Andrés sighs as he’s pushing himself to sit against the pillows. 

“It was serendipity manifested. It was the unforeseen. The reason why we have fail-safes.”

Fucking fail-safes. Aces up various sleeves. Contingency plans. Plans that had names and people who needed to know. Not Martín, it seems, he didn’t need to know, he was there just to— what?

“Why didn’t I know about Plan Helsinki?”

“I couldn’t— Don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“I have a plan.”

“You have a plan? You have nothing but plans! You’re the man with the plan, but me? I’m just here to blow shit up. You fuck me, but you don’t keep me informed about the things that really matter. Didn’t I need to know that you had a way out? Just like I didn’t need to know that you had planned to recruit Mirko, that you were actually ready for it? Am I just a lay to you, Fonollosa?”

“Damn it, Martín! I almost—” He takes a moment to calm himself. “I almost lost you once. Plus, we had Mirko, who’s actually trained for this. I can’t have you out there. Not yet.”

“Not yet. Is this some part of your plan too? Hm?”

Andrés nods carefully.

“And were you going to tell me about this plan or was I supposed to find myself in the middle of it like every. single. time. so far?” In all fairness, Martín was quite good at adapting to whatever situation he found himself in, even during the recent deluge of changes in his life, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that, for a man that spoke so much, Andrés sure didn’t tell him the important things. 

“We were going to tell you about Mirko. And the vineyard— I’m sorry I lied to you. I didn’t know— I didn’t know it would be like that. When we met, I didn’t—” Andrés, once more lost for words. What an honor. 

“What.”

“I like women, Martín! A lot. Women, and _you_. I did not see it coming. I even fought it for a while, but you’re just— You’re different.” 

_That other thing_ writhes inside Martín at the sheer possibility that Andrés might be feeling something similar to what he is. A possibility, a lot of hope. A little fear.

Andrés is rubbing his face with his palms. “You think you’re the only one who finds himself in the middle of something that they were not expecting? Fucking plans, Martín. They work - until they don’t. You can plan for every situation and still be surprised. I was not expecting—” 

“So that’s why you’re keeping things from me? Because I _awakened_ something in you? I like dick too, and that didn’t make me into a liar.”

No - that was _you_.

“Martín—”

“From now on, you tell me everything. _Everything_. Or I walk.” 

Andrés nods.

“What happened last night?”

Last night, he says with confidence even though time stopped having any meaning a couple of seconds after hearing those awful words, _‘I lost them_ ’. Andrés doesn’t move, which Martín finds grating, somehow, how still and controlled he is, how calm he sounds when he speaks. 

“They knew Mirko. They didn’t even serve together, it didn’t show up in any of our research, and still they knew him. And they recognized him in the club; all he had to do was to look my way one too many times, and that was it. They thought I was setting them up.”

“Fuck.”

“Of course, they didn’t tell me that at first, and they got stuck for quite a while in the old ‘ _who are you working for_ ’ loop. Once they mentioned a big bearded guy, I pieced it together.” Andrés pauses, and through the dark, Martín can see him turning to watch him and he could barely see the smile on his face reflected in the rise of his cheekbones. “Do you know what they called Mirko in the army?” Then, without even waiting for a response, “They called him Big Bear.” 

Martín laughs, a nervous eruption that he couldn’t foresee or hold back, at the sheer hilarity of the idea. Andrés isn’t laughing.

“How much did he tell you about his years with the army?”

Martín swallows, hard. Truth is, Mirko hasn’t said much and Martín never questioned that. Now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Andrés shakes his head. 

“Let’s just say that he and his team were a _known quantity_. And these guys knew him. They were maybe willing to chalk it as a coincidence that they’d run into him, after all that time, in that exact club, at that exact time. But then they saw him looking at us and— They swept me out in seconds, Mirko wasn’t even looking. And the plans we got for the venue? Outdated or doctored; there was a cellar leading to the building next door.” Martín has checked those plans too, and there was nothing out of the ordinary. But, of course, Sergio had been wary of the location, what had he noticed that Martín hadn’t? “From what I could understand - my Russian’s a little bit rusty - they knew the club owner, that’s how they managed to sneak me out without a hitch.”

“And then they beat you up.”

“Well, they roughed me up, really. They weren’t too quick to believe that I wasn’t working _for_ anyone. A lot of ‘punch first, ask questions later’.” He sits back on the pillow, arranging himself with small grunts. “It took them forever to bring Big Bear into the discussion, and from there it wasn’t such a jump to understand who they meant and to propose a meeting with him.”

“And then Mirko came and bought them out? Plan Helsinki?”

Andrés nods, and silence falls for a few minutes, while Martín takes in all the information. Eventually, Andrés shifts and picks the sheet back up, pulling it over himself, clearly thinking that he’s going back to sleep. Which was understandable but unacceptable. Martín interjects.

“I’m not done being angry with you.” “Would it be a good time to remind you that I’ve been hurt and I need to rest?”

“ _Well, roughed up, really_ ”, he mocks, “and there’s plenty of time to sleep after we talk. Unless you plan to get kidnapped again.”

“That’s unfair, you know that wasn’t the plan—”

“No, I don’t know that, and that’s the point. You don’t include me. Sergio doesn’t include me, and with him I get it; he still has his hangups and they’re probably based on the fact that he knows too much about where our dicks have been. But you? Why would you still lie to me? Lying by omission is still lying.”

“Sergio didn’t think that—”

“I don’t give a fuck about what Sergio thinks,” which is sort of stupid in the context since Sergio was the one calling the shots, basically. He had no choice but to give a great deal of fucks about what Sergio thinks. He doesn’t have to like it, though. “You have a say in this too, and if you choose you keep me in the dark, I’m out.”

He doesn’t know what he means by that - out of their crime-doing gang? Out of his ‘thing’ with Andrés? He’s not really sure, but he’s angry and it will take him a while to cool off now that he’s gotten so tightly wound up.

“What’s my purpose in all of this? Am I only here to blow shit up and look at building plans? You know you’re wasting my talents, my knowledge, my skills.” He’s not mentioning the sex. He’s decided that’s the part he wants to keep, so he doesn’t mention it. 

“Your skills?” Andrés gets back up, grunting to rest more comfortably against the pillows. Martín would want to lend a hand, since he’s obviously in pain, but resists it. “Do you even know how to hold a gun?”

“Is this how it’s all going to be like? Guns, kidnappings, killing?”

“There’s a fair bit of guns, yes. What we do is dangerous.” 

“Well, fucking teach me! I’m a quick learner, you know that. Teach me, use me. Involve me - if you want to keep me.”

Andrés doesn’t say anything, but Martín can almost see the clench in his jaw in the shadows playing on his face. 

“That’s the plan.”

 _The plan_. Martín feels like punching Andrés in the face, in his beautiful, already bruised face. He almost does, but when he rolls on top of Andrés, he just pushes him back against the sheet, gripping his hands when they reach for Martín and pinning them down to the sheets. He leans in - definitely not careful - and he pretends not to see the way Andrés’ breath catches when he breathes too deeply.

It’s dark, it’s so fucking dark and he can’t see the bruises, but he wants to find them. He lets go of Andrés’ hands but he doesn’t move them, he offers himself and Martín takes advantage, running his hands along his body. In the darkness, the skin feels the same everywhere; it’s warm and soft under his fingertips, but when he chances over some of the tender flesh, _he knows_. Andrés’ breath hitches, his muscles tense. There’s an unmistakable moan. So Martín presses harder - the heel of his palm on his flank, the tips of his fingers against the ribs; he pushes and twists, and Andrés gasps, his back rising off the bed. 

This is fucked up. He knows it; he’s not a sadist but can’t stop it, he pushes further, getting high on the noises that Andrés makes when he digs his fingers in. The word ‘hatefuck’ flashes through his mind and he almost laughs, a little manic in his hunger. 

He slides lower, dragging Andrés’ pajama pants down, he pulls them off and throws them away, and Andrés does not protest. He lays, waiting, up on his elbows. Even in the absence of light, he is beautiful - his pose, the play of his muscles under his skin, the absolute decadence of his moans - gorgeous in a way that makes Martín’s blood boil. Andrés is beautiful and dangerous, he’s brilliant and so, _so_ infuriating. Martín’s head is swimming with rage, he tries to fight how much it turns him on, because it’s _wrong_ — 

But Andrés would want nothing more from him than to give in - the hedonist in him, such a driving force in the paradox that is Andrés. So Martín makes peace with the fire burning low in his gut as he crawls up between Andrés’ legs and stops between his thighs. He breathes, hard, dips his head lower and pushes one of his legs up - Andrés lets himself be maneuvered, he’s pliant and willing. Martín traces his tongue along the inside of Andrés’ thigh, on the newly offered skin, then stops and sinks his teeth in the tender flesh there. He’s gentle when he does, but then he closes his lips and sucks hard. The muscle tenses under his lips, it bulges and trembles, but he doesn’t let go, not until he’s satisfied that he’s left a mark. 

All that Martín wants is to hear those moans again, so he moves up, on Andrés’ abdomen, where he grazes his teeth gently until he’s satisfied with the spot, and sucks another bruise there. 

_‘I want to hurt you’,_ Martín thinks, but he can’t say that. He knows it’s not right. What he says instead, looking up to meet Andrés’ eyes, is, “I want to fuck you.” 

There’s no lube, but it’s not going to stop him. He slides down again, lifts Andrés’ thighs and goes for it - Andrés jumps at the first wet touch of Martín’s tongue and he gives a surprised gasp. Martín really hopes no one’s done this to him before, he still has this selfish need to have so many of Andrés’ firsts. He’s greedy, even when he’s got his tongue circling Andrés’ asshole, he knows he’s greedy because his intentions? He’s being run by a string of _hurt - take - bruise_ so he squeezes his fingers around the warm flesh of his thighs, he digs his nails so deep that he knows he’ll leave imprints. He wants to. 

Andrés is thrashing above him, so Martín stops - only for a minute.

“Relax. Hold your legs for me.”

It hits him like a gut-punch the way Andrés obeys, yet again. He links his hands under his thighs, keeping himself open, just the way Martín wants him. He’s open and vulnerable and so good, but Martín is still angry - he’s furious. 

It’s messy, wet and exquisitely filthy - Martín loved doing it for that precise feeling, the little burbling shame inside him when he’s doing this, the way it feeds who knows what deep-seated need inside him. He pushes his tongue in, and it’s easier now that Andrés is relaxed and has given in completely to the onslaught of sensations. Martín can’t not take advantage of that - he gathers enough spit on his fingers to push one inside, and Andrés clenches around it with a long, drawn-out moan.

He’s going to fuck Andrés with nothing but spit as lube and the thought thrills him. He won’t hurt him - not like that, only ever in the ways Andrés wants him to. So he pushes on whatever tender flesh he finds as he opens him up with his other hand, careful and patient and in a sharp contrast to the spite behind his fingers. 

When Andrés is ready and Martín gets up on his knees, ready to push in, single-mindedly focused on that one thing, on the pop of his cockhead in that tightness, that first breach that steals the breath of them both every single time, he— he stops. He’s looking at his cock, thick and flushed, a drop of precome beading at the tip, and he stops. He gets up, tangles his feet in the sheet but manages to get off the bed, ignoring Andrés’ confused, ‘what?’ and walks to the chair where he’d hung his jacket when he came in. He takes the condom from his jacket pocket, ripping the foil as he approaches the bed again.

Because he may have been a slut, but was definitely not a dumb one.

He doesn’t ask if Andrés is ready but he answers with his whole body, wrapping his legs around Martín and grabbing his face, dragging him down in a kiss. 

Every single time. Just like it does every single time, their breath catches at that first push, except this time Andrés immediately digs his legs into Martín’s back, urging him deeper. It’s not as easy with only spit and whatever slickness the condom had, but it works, he slides in blindingly slowly until Andrés takes all of him. It’s unbearably tight and searingly hot, and Martín buries his head under Andrés’ neck, trying to calm the storm brewing back inside him, the one that wants to take, to hurt.

Because he was angry. He can’t, with the pull deep in his gut, he can’t remember why he was so angry in the first place, but he was. He pushes in, more considerate than his anger should have allowed him, but he’s not gentle; the push of his hands on Andrés’ ribs isn’t gentle, and neither is the rhythm he’s setting. Andrés, he does not protest - he just holds on to whatever part of Martín he can rest his hands on, and he’s urging him for more, for faster.

“Fuck me,” he says, pointlessly and pleading, and he’s trying to move, to push himself up to meet the thrusts. “Damn it, Martín, fuck me!”

Which only serves to make Martín angrier, getting him to grab Andrés’ legs and hook them over his shoulders, folding him in half, going deeper, making the both of them moan and tremble. The way Andrés is curled is definitely hurting his ribs, it’s obvious in the way he holds his breath then hisses, but he doesn’t make a move to stop. 

“Hurts so good, doesn’t it?” Martín says, stealing Andrés’ like from earlier, because he _knows_. 

He has no control over the tight snap of his hips and all he wants is to make him hurt, to hear those hisses, the moans that start in pain but melt in pleasure. He’s lost in the drag of his cock, the way Andrés’ body _accepts_ him, all he wants to do is find those bruises and to push on them, and he doesn’t— he doesn’t know why, but he does it, and he’s— 

Andrés puts all of his strength behind his arms when he pushes Martín’s shoulder - his dick slips out and he’s on his back, taken by surprise. Andrés straddles him, fluid and determined, ignoring all the sore spots that made him wince, he lifts on his knees and Martín can see it, he knows what’s going to happen, but he still watches in wonder when he grabs Martín’s cock then sinks down on it. 

Martín’s not a traditionalist, by any means. But like that, he suddenly feels like the balance has shifted, like he’s no longer in control - or maybe he just relinquishes it _just like that._ It wouldn’t be the first time he does it, with Andrés. Andrés, who was arching back - the morning light was beginning to spill, fractured, through the curtains - and Martín can finally see him. He can see the bow of his spine, the darkening shapes on his ribs and those on his abdomen where Martín had placed them. 

He wants to take back control so he grips Andrés’ hips, trying to guide his movements, then to keep him in place and fuck up into him when that doesn’t work, but Andrés doesn’t let him. For all the obedience he had before, it’s all gone now, replaced by a vicious, blind determination. 

He leans back, and hands curl themselves around Martín’s shins and he rides him like it’s not the first time he’s doing it. It still makes Martín marvel, just how much of a natural he is at all of this, how easily he goes along with anything. He wonders, with as much brainpower as he has available, just how far he can push Andrés, just how far he’s willing to go. 

Martin wants to try, to see; he pushes up to wrap his arms around him, but he’s thrown back, one of Andrés’ hands firmly planted on his chest. He falls back on the bed, with Andrés’ weight pinning him down, and Martín can’t— he can’t stand this. This time it’s him trying to fight, and his own hands that end up pinned, one by one, by his head.

“Let me—” Andrés pants, not stopping the roll of his hips. Martín fights his grasp, he twists and turns but Andrés won’t release him. “ _Stay_.”

Every press of Andrés’ hands only makes him want to struggle more, and it makes no sense, this tension inside him that’s wound so tightly, seeking an outlet. So he twists and squirms until— 

“Stay!” Andrés snarls, his fingers a tight shackle around Martín’s wrists. “Don’t you see—” He’s looking at Martín, trying to speak with the burning look in his eyes when his words fail him.

Martín stops writhing. He goes lax, he lets Andrés take what he wants - and it’s a different kind of honey-thick thrum that runs through him this time, and the anger is slowly smothered, replaced with a frantic _need_. He needs release, he needs relief, he needs the fight but most of all— he needs Andrés to do whatever he wants to him. Of course, Andrés reads him like a book, with a sort of unnatural precision, like he's tapping straight into Martín's secret layers. He releases a wrist - Martin keeps it still - and his fingers curl instead, large and hot around Martín’s neck. 

Breath play is, first and foremost, dangerous. That’s maybe why Martín likes it so much, this surrender, the way he literally puts his life in someone else’s hands, the inherent trust needed to do it. The hand squeezes around his windpipe, not to crush but to make itself known - it’s there, in control. Martín’s head is spinning. 

It’s just chemicals. They’re pumping through him, adding to the rush, the needy exhilaration of the act itself, crossing the wires of his fight and flight instincts and twisting them in fucked-up ways. He blinks, feeling the pinpricks tingle in the tips of his fingers, the back of his tongue, his free hand flies to grab Andrés’ hand - not to stop him, but in a desperate, shameless need for more contact, for communication. He squeezes the wrist and Andrés’ hand echoes him, pressing tighter, and Martín’s eyes roll in his head. 

He’s close, he’s so close, all he can hear, through the hiss of blood in his ears, is the slap of Andrés’ skin on his own, and he’s almost, he’s—

“Martín,” Andrés shifts closer to Martín’s face and it’s hard to keep his eyes open, to bring Andrés in focus. Andrés’ face softens - but his grip around Martín’s neck doesn’t - and he leans down, breathing hotly against Martín’s cheek. He’s still moving, still fucking himself with a roll in his hips, an unbroken staccato that makes him moan, the sound slicing through Martín. He comes down to lick at Martín’s open mouth, stealing even more of the air around them. “I love you,” he says, and Martín’s brain instantly disconnects from his body. 

_He’s back. He’s safe._

Martín’s anger shatters and melts away and he can finally feel the relief, it hits him at once and leaves him nearly sobbing with the weight so suddenly lifted. He can tell by Andrés’ pulse that it’s barely been a second when and when he’s coming back - _he’s coming_. He’s pulsing, all attention focused on just one point, where he’s pulsing deep inside Andrés, and he keeps coming and Andrés doesn’t stop, wringing pleasure out of him almost painfully. 

Andrés releases his throat and grabs his own cock, jerking himself, looking down between them to where his hand is working, and then he’s coming too, shooting hot across Martín’s chest. The first full breath burns Martín’s lungs and then he greedily takes another, then another, still stunned by the vise-like grip around his cock while Andrés is coming. It feels like he's flying, but there's no ground underneath and no sky above. He's hurtling through nothingness, weightless and unburdened, and it’s just him and Andrés, and Andrés loves him.

  


The silence is screaming when they’re done. 

Later, when Andrés has it in him to move, Martín sees it again - the blue sky, when Andrés opens the curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to keep on as Queen of Chapters of Varying length, this one is nearly 7k so umm, sorry it took a while! 
> 
> Also— 
> 
> I can’t be anything but serious about safe sex okay? In all forms. And again, I feel the need to mention that **breath play is dangerous** , don’t engage in it without extensive communication and preferably with someone you trust and who knows what they’re doing. That being said, ~~choke me, daddy~~.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of a loaded evening is... complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the absence - stuff happened and I couldn't focus on writing.
> 
> Thank you for all the love! <3

The light spills brightly through the windows, and Martín feels turned inside out - the tender bits, the insecurities, the _feelings_ , all those things are at the surface now, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He wipes himself as best he can with a corner of the sheet then pushes it off the bed and settles back, with Andrés by his side and a whole mess of things between them.

All that anger is gone, but the clearing it left behind is slowly getting filled by the heavy weight of words - words that were said, words that weren’t, and words that need to be said anyway. 

Andrés turns to him, with a small grunt and a hitch in his breath. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” 

In absolute terms, that wasn’t a lie, but relative to what just happened - it definitely was. 

“What do you need?” Andrés carefully presses further and Martín draws a deep breath that almost has a taste, a shape, and it’s the shape of Andrés’ fingers on his throat. He needs more than a couple of things; he needs a very long, very hot shower, immediately followed by at least eight hours of restful, uninterrupted sleep. However, he is unable to make any sort of effort, so showering is out of the question. 

“Sleep?”

“Okay.”

Andrés gets up and Martín almost moves to get up as well, to follow him, with this little ball of _something_ tightening in his chest and— wait, was he really this needy? To panic when Andrés leaves? 

_Well._

If the previous night was any indication, his brain wasn’t at its best where Andrés was involved. What a disheartening realization for a man who saw himself as rational even in his passions, to find himself so emotion-driven. The most surprising thing about it though, was that Martín didn’t exactly hate it. 

Andrés disappears behind the door of one of the closets, then closes it to open the one next to it. He takes out a fresh sheet that he shakes loose, letting it slowly settle on top of Martín. He fiddles with it some more, then climbs on the bed, pulling it over the both of them. 

Martín’s thoughts take on the cadence of Andrés’ steady heartbeat, getting slower and slower until he difts asleep without noticing. When he wakes up, who knows how much later, he’s curled up right by Andrés, with his arm draped over his back. Andrés is not asleep, he’s looking up at the ceiling and he’s— there’s wetness dancing in his eyes, which shocks Martín in a way that he can’t fully process.

“Are you okay?” 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He quickly wipes his eyes, looking at Martín with an empty smile. “I’m fine.”

It’s that smile, really, more than the tears that Martín pretends not to have seen that make him think that _maybe_ — maybe it was time they actually _spoke_.

“I have a feeling that your ‘fine’ is like my ‘fine’, which is to say, not at all.” He wouldn’t be. He’s been through a lot, both with the kidnapping, and with the pretty intense session they fell into afterward. And the _Things_ that were said. “You had a rough night. And then you kinda choked me; so it’s fine to not be, you know. Fine.”

“It’s—” Andrés shifts, still hissing when he moves to turn to his side, to face Martín. His bruises are darker now, this vivid reminder of what he’s been through. “I feel bottomless.” And he leaves it like that.

It’s an apt description for what Martín is pretty sure is a drop. He’s surprisingly okay after his nap, feeling centered again, but Andrés— 

“Did I hurt you?” Andrés asks, and there’s a sense of worry in his eyes which manages to pull at Martín’s heartstrings. That thing in Andrés, that need to keep him safe, it was both heart-warming and, to a certain extent, infuriating. But what Andrés needs is comfort, not reproach. 

“Not in any way that I didn’t want you to.”

Andrés nods, but doesn’t look entirely sure, and Martín is right there to hold his hand yet again. 

“It was very charged, I give you that. It’s normal to feel like this after an intense scene. It will pass. And I’m _fine,_ ” Martín repeats, more firmly. “I think I needed that.” _All of that_ , but he doesn’t know if he wants to address Andrés’ confession just yet. And not just because it would make the absence of his own confession very obvious. “Next time we should probably talk about it beforehand, but that’s a very keen eye on you; choking is definitely one of my kinks, well spotted.” 

“I don’t— I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re dropping. Dom-drop is a thing too. Too many good brain chemicals, you got quite an endorphin high; it’s fantastic while you’re in the middle of it, but when it all wears off - you drop.” Andrés grumbles beside him and Martín realizes once again that for a couple (which they very much were) that spoke so much, they didn’t really communicate. Not meaningfully or efficiently. “We should probably talk about this whole kinky streak that we both seem to have going on. I’ll, uh— I’m far from an expert, but I _do_ know a few things. Like the fact that you’re in dire need of aftercare right now. So it’s my turn to ask - what doyou need?”

Andrés, it turns out, doesn’t know what he needs, so Martín starts to brainstorm.

“We can talk, we can cuddle, we can get something to eat?” 

It hits him right as he opens his mouth, the realization that time was still a thing and that it was perhaps not the best time to be sleeping in. He jumps up. “What’s the time? What about Sergio? And Mirko?”

“It’s fine, they already left. I caught up with Sergio earlier, everything is good with our three angry mercenaries.”

“Huh. How long was I asleep?”

“Four hours, give or take.”

“Wow. So? What do we do now?”

Andrés doesn’t even blink. 

“I would like to go to my place. Alone - if that’s alright. I need some space, I need to think.”

“Alright,” Martín says, even though he doesn’t feel like it’s alright at all. “Are you sure you’re okay though?”

“Yeah.” He rubs his forehead, getting up. “I can drop you off at your place if you want.”

There’s not quite coldness between them, but there’s an invisible wall that Martín can feel. The little bubble of lightness that he had woken up in burst in an instant, and all he tries to tell himself is that everyone processes things differently, and if what Andrés needed some space it was completely valid, but— 

Saying it back now would be wrong.

Not that he doesn’t mean it, he’s pretty sure he does. Why else would he end up paralyzed at the mere prospect of losing Andrés? He just can’t seem to say it.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he says, trying to sound unaffected, “You can drop me off at the first metro station.”

  


Monday mornings are a special kind of hell at the bookstore. For some reason, that particular morning they have a couple of people already waiting at the door when they come to open up, and it only gets busier from there. Before noon they get a large delivery of books, and right after lunch— Raquel drops by.

Raquel is looking around with a pleasant smile, even though they both know that she’s basically doing an inspection - unannounced, of course, not that Silene from the other location hadn’t called them to let them know as soon as she left their place. The bookstore is spotless, and not because they were expecting her, but because— well, of course it would be. It’s their second home, they love and respect it.

Once she was satisfied - and she was, otherwise she would have said something - Raquel goes to Mirko, getting real close to have a quiet conversation with him by the display window. Martín stops caring about them as soon as he lays eyes on the new Taschen catalog and is swept up by the instant and burning desire to own _all_ of those new titles. In a way, he feels possessive of some of the books in that place, even though they aren’t _his_ , only in his care for a while. He spends most of his working hours in the bookstore after all, and he has a much wider variety of books to peruse whenever the mood strikes than he does at home. So they’re not technically _his_ , but they were still his, in a way. 

He hasn’t even finished reading all the books he currently has on his shelves at home, which is something he used to feel self-conscious about until he met other people who took the same approach to building a personal library, which was, ‘needs more books’. 

All his friends are nerds, Martín realizes, feeling the strange need to push inexistent glasses up his nose; even those that are criminals, they’re still nerds. 

Mirko was both. Surprisingly. 

And he hadn’t changed one bit, this new side of him, the soldier, it fit so seamlessly into the grooves of the Mirko he knew that he can’t even see a difference in him.

Raquel unexpectedly takes the seat beside him behind the counter and Martín realizes that he’s been staring at the same page for too long, and closes the catalog he seems to have forgotten all about. Raquel puts a hand on Martín’s arm, and he stares at it, and back then up at her. 

“Is everything okay with you and Mirko? Lover’s quarrel?”

“We’re fine. We’re just tired. Busy weekend and all.”

Raquel lets go of his arm and squirms in her chair to better face Martín. He feels that it’s his turn to have his own hushed talk just like Mirko had, and is desperately wishing that some customers would walk in. Sadly, the door remains firmly shut and Raquel starts talking again.

“I love how you always talk about yourselves like you’re a unit. That’s not codependent at all,” he teases, and Martín snickers. “If you need some time off, do let me know. I’m sure we can switch things around. We were toying with the idea of getting interns to cover scheduling gaps between bookstores, how does that sound?”

Martín shrugs. The way they’re doing it is just fine, and Martín finds himself feeling rather territorial about the bookstore. It feels like it is their kingdom, and welcoming anyone else is only going to upset the balance. But vacation time is always a pain to schedule, so there maybe is some merit in what Raquel is saying.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Four hours a day, one intern per bookstore, for a trial period of three months.”

“Sounds reasonable. And you seem to have given it a lot of thought.”

“Martín—” Raquel looks at him, then starts speaking softer when a bunch of (obvious) tourists walk in and start perusing the shelves. “I know you won’t be working here forever. You or Mirko. We’re more than lucky to have had you for this time, and we’d love to keep you for as long as you’re willing to work for us. But we’re also aware of your skills, and— Just saying, I wouldn’t fault you for leaving us and finally setting back in the career path that you trained on.”

“Are you trying to replace me?”

“No!” Raquel is quick to deny it. Maybe too quick? “No. But I’ve noticed that you’re not really… here lately. Not like you were before. And the whole intern business was a thing we’d been working on for a while at HQ.” She says HQ, painting the image of this high-tech, fully-staffed office instead of the half-a-floor they rented in an old, decrepit building. Their bookstores may not have been the flashiest, most popular ones in Madrid, but they had their charm, and part of it was brought on by just how small they were. Like a family, but not in the fake-sounding way that corporations often used that word. “I’m not bringing you your replacement to train, I just want to make it clear. But I also want you to know that it’s fine if you think to get out of this business. We’ll hate it if you do, but we understand it. And we’ll all support you.”

“Okay,” Martín says, carefully. The tourists leave, empty-handed and loud. The bookstore is empty again, save for Mirko who’s retrieving the window cleaning supplies. 

“Just— let us know if you’re on the lookout for another job, okay? Either of you. So we can plan accordingly.”

“Raquel—”

“Don’t get weird about it. Do what you need to do, okay?” She smiles, warm and beautiful and kind, before she suddenly gets mean. “And honestly, stop being such a dick to customers, remember that we’re trying to sell books here, not to give away free snark.”

  


It’s late in the afternoon when Raquel finally leaves - the bookstore has been teaming with customers and Raquel offers to put her hair up and do the reception on the large pile of newly-arrived books that fill up the back room. All they have to do now is to finish shelving the new titles - as if that’s a small task, laws of physics and all - but they manage to do it as soon as the flow of people dwindles.

Martín is done sending an email to HQ with their needs for supplies, and Mirko is keeping busy beside him, scrubbing the till down with some alcohol wipes. Martín leans back in his chair, looking at the shelves, the books towering up to the ceiling, just soaking up how it all makes for such a pretty picture. His heart pulls, strangely nostalgic.

Mirko throws the wipes in the bin, then sits by Martín at the till.

“What are you going to do with your money?”

Martín shrugs, feeling himself become sheepish. The money. He still has it, tall stacks of money, more money than he’s ever seen in his life. He’s resisted the urge to take it out from the back of his closet and to simply stare at it like he so desperately felt like for a while. Maybe to bury his hands in it (and then to thoroughly wash them). Then it occurs to him—

“Wait, you got paid?”

Mirko blinks at him.

“You didn’t?”

“I—”

“Oh my god, do you get paid in sex? I mean it’s hard to choose between, dare I say, _fat stacks_ and a fat dick, but—”

“I don’t get paid in sex. The sex is for free.” He’s going for offended, but the realization, mid-speaking, completely changes his pitch. “Oh no that’s worse.”

Mirko takes a completely different approach to having money; he didn’t squirrel it away like Martín did and started living it large immediately. Well, as large as you can call buying all the papers displayed by the till that he spilled his coffee on when he burst laughing. He’s just done ringing them up, putting the wallet back into his pocket and ripping the receipt. 

“Right, so that was a great end to the day.”

He gathers all the ruined papers and sets them aside, where Martín absentmindedly flips through one.

“I can’t believe you got paid.” 

“I can’t believe that you didn’t!”

“Well, it was your first mission I guess. It was more of a routine thing for me.”

“Still— sucks to be you.”

Martín thinks that it didn’t; he was still rich, for all intents and purposes. 

“Think we can buy the bookstore?”

Mirko looks at him like he has two heads. 

“Where did that come from?”

“You did ask what I’d do with the money.”

“I’m sure that wouldn’t raise any flags, Martín, buying the bookstore with a bookseller’s wage.”

“I’m sure that Andrés or Sergio can find a way to do it through some offshore accounts and under some assumed identities, we can definitely make it work.”

Mirko shrugs.

“Probably. Say, in the interest of symmetry, do I have to date Sergio? He’s not hard to look at but he’s really not my type.”

Martín snorts. “I’ll say. He can actually carry a conversation.”

“I’m hurt. _Hurt_ ,” He exaggerates, arms stretched out pathetically to the ceiling lights. “that you think so little of me. Also, I’m going to break up with Dario tonight.”

“What?”

“Well, I think he’s going to break up with me; he really didn’t like it that I had plans last Saturday, plans that did not include him. Which, in and of itself is weird but yeah, he did not like that one bit.”

“I’m sorry. Should I stay up, get you drunk?”

“Nah. Sad thing is, it’s really not even a getting-drunk kind of a breakup.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s like this.”

  


Martín is last to come out of the bookstore, patting his pockets for the key, when he sees Andrés waiting on the sidewalk, nodding to Mirko in acknowledgment. He locks up, pocketing the key, then turns to Andrés.

The bruise that spreads high on his cheek is turning greenish, and Martin would love to say that Andrés wears it with dignity, that he makes it look good but no, he just looks like a guy who's been in a fight. 

“Hey,” he leaned in for a kiss and the wires in Martín’s head got crossed for a second, remembering the days when those kisses were just for show. “Sorry to drop by unannounced.” 

“Hey,” says Martín, suddenly unsure how to act around Andrés. They’ve left things… uncertain. Only a couple of texts shot back and forth since that morning in the safe house, Martín making sure that Andrés was alright, which he insisted that he was. He seemed to be his old self, open and confident, but still a tiny bit restrained. “Dinner?”

“That’s what I was thinking, yes.”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“My place.”

“Oh.” It’s not disappointment, quite the opposite. Martín didn’t know what he was expecting, but the fact that they didn’t go to a public place was a good sign. “Let’s walk there, it’s a nice evening.”

Mirko’s walking a few steps before them, and Martín throws Andrés a look before speeding to catch up to Mirko.

“See you later? Possibly tomorrow.”

“Good luck, _cabron_!”

“Yeah,” Martín smirks. “You too,” and he slaps Martín’s shoulder, then breaks off to return to Andrés,

  


The walk to Andrés’ place is a fairly long one, but it really is a pleasant evening. But Martín can’t think of a single thing to say, and Andrés isn’t too talkative either. But the silence, it’s not a comfortable one, and Martín feels the urge to fill it.

“Raquel dropped by today; she seems to think that I’m planning to leave the bookstore. They’re bringing in interns.” Andrés just nods, but doesn’t engage. “And you know, I’ve never really thought that I’ll be leaving the boosktore, not really. I mean, I know that I will, eventually, but it doesn’t feel real. That’s my home, you know?”

“Martín, I’m sorry,” bubbles Andrés, out of nowhere, clearly not having paid any attention to what he was saying. “Back at the safe house, I was overwhelmed, a lot had happened. And I’m sorry if I was callous in my actions, I didn’t mean to be dismissive.”

“It’s fine. If that’s what you needed, of course—”

“Before anything else, I want you to know that what I said, it’s true and I mean it.” He catches Martín’s eyes. “I love you.” 

“Andrés, I’m sorry, I—”

Andrés stops, taking Martín’s hand in his. They’re in the middle of the sidewalk, a couple has to side-step at the last second to avoid them, but Andrés doesn’t even seem to notice them.

“You don’t have to say it back, not until you’re ready. This isn’t about that.” 

Martín looks at him with a furrowed brow, because it sure sounded like that’s where the conversation was headed. He swallows the word, wherever words he was about to say, and listens.

“It’s about the plan. About what you said, that I kept things from you.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, I was angry, I didn’t—”

“No, you were perfectly right. I did keep you in the dark, and I plan to fix that. Okay, you know what, I’m getting us a cab.”

“What? Why?”

“The rest of this conversation should probably happen in a more private place, I think.”

  


The bottle of wine that Andrés already has picked out turns to be a great lubricant for the talk that was so long overdue. Andrés uncorks it and pours them each a glass, then sits on his side of the couch, holding his glass up.

“Here's to the biggest heist in the history of Spain!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be one chapter, but it came in at over 8k. Since I know that I, personally, can't handle reading that much in one go (thank you, ADHD and dyslexia) I'll post them separately, but both of them NOW because I've been working on this chapter for so long ;__;


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR, therapy via kink.

His glass is long abandoned on the table while Andrés speaks. He’s drawn in, enchanted; it’s not just a beautiful plan, it’s crafted to such an extent that it might just work, too. 

Andrés tells him everything. That it was their father’s vision, and that Sergio had been working on it for years, building the connections, setting up every wrung on the ladder that will allow them to make their brilliantly mad plan a reality. And while Martín was new at the particulars of crime, he was still clever enough to recognize the elegant boldness involved in executing the biggest robbery in history, without technically stealing from anyone. 

“You came at the perfect time, Martín.” Andrés has abandoned his glass too, speaking with a smile openly tinged with his passion and pride. “Everything that we’ve been working on so far has had one purpose - Sergio and I took dad’s dream and are turning it into reality. Everything, recruiting you, trying to get that drive, trying to recruit the mercenaries; all of it was for that purpose. There are more steps ahead, quite a long journey, and all of it includes you. In fact, I don’t see it happening without you.”

“Alright,” Martín says, lost for other words.

"First and foremost, I need your brain. You're that missing piece, the perspective that Sergio and I need, and I want to ask you to join us in finishing the poem that is this heist."

“How is this going to work?”

Andrés frowns, uncertain. “What part?”

“Us.”

An uncomfortable question, maybe, but an unavoidable one. Andrés takes a moment, eyeing his glass, picking it up then setting it back down without taking a sip.

“There’s no easy answer, I’m afraid. Carefully? And with practice. And training. And trust.”

Andrés did allude to some sort of training that Maritn would have to embark on, which honestly sounds like a great idea - he wouldn’t want to find himself stuck in the van, helpless, to be protected. He was right though, in everything he said. Because of course he would be.

“Next thing on the agenda is to get the information on that drive - the one at the Governor’s house - in another way. Sergio is currently working on it; that information is crucial to the plan.”

“And we still need some armed muscle, right?”

“We do. However, as I mentioned before - you came at the perfect time. You and Mirko.”

Right. Of course. Martín is just a little bit surprised, but most of all at the fact that it didn’t occur to him until then, how perfect it all was - Big Bear and his legendary team. 

“I bet Sergio loves it that it all turned into this nice, family thing.” Martín laughs, softly. “This team of ours goes against everything he believes in with his ‘no personal relationships’ rule.”

“Yes, well. I believe he failed at it from the start, since it was literally a family thing at its very core. I think he’ll only want to keep this rule when we’re inside; don’t think that he’ll let go of it so easily.”

Andrés was supposed to lead the team inside the Mint, with Martín by his side. It was an insane plan, but it was such an organized insanity that it had to work. Andrés keeps talking and Martín listens to him, but his mind is moving on its own path, right when Andrés is going through some brilliant solutions to problems that no one could ever reasonably foresee. He hears all that and marvels, struck by the exact nature of what’s involved with coming up with all that, with turning it into reality, and the caliber of the minds that came up with it all.

“We need you,” Andrés concludes, and Martín is pulled back into what he’s saying. “You’re both the counter-balance to, and the connection between Sergio’s world and mine. And you’re every bit as brilliant as Sergio. Imagine us working together, Martín! And you’ll be more than the brain, you’ll be out there with me too, when we’re inside. It will be the two of us in there, and Sergio out here, and it will be _extraordinary_.”

Two thoughts fight for Martín’s attention, both of them at the very end of the spectrum. 

The first is his ingrained need to outshine, to prove just how fucking smart he is - because _he is_ \- so his knee-jerk reaction is, _‘I bet I can do it better’._ He knows he can. He doesn’t know how, not yet, but he will. It always happens, usually sooner rather than later. However, this time— 

His second thought is, almost simultaneously _, ‘Andrés thinks that I’m like them?’_

Martín almost asks that out loud, but it’s a hilarious enough notion that he doesn’t want to put out into the world. He isn’t like that. He can be elegance and preciseness, but he is also a flash-flood of anger and potential chaos. He isn’t like them at all. 

“What are you thinking?”

Martín breaks away from his own bullshit, and almost flushes, embarrassed, like a student caught not paying attention during class. It’s an awful feeling, this.

“I’m sorry, I’m listening. Go on.”

“Something’s on your mind, and I feel like it’s something— off.”

“I was thinking,” Martín scrambles back, quickly unwinding the last few things he remembers Andrés saying. Right, something about surveillance nano-technology. “I think I know someone at Rey Juan Carlos who’s toying with tech at the scale you’re thinking.”

Andrés nods. “Useful. But that’s not it. That’s not what I saw.”

Martín sighs. It was bound to turn into a weapon at some point, Andrés’ uncanny ability to read Martín like a fucking book. He doesn’t want to say it. Andrés loved him, and that should have been enough.

So what if Sergio was right? _“He's going to fall in love with you, then he's going to leave you. It's what Andrés does.”_

Back at the bookstore, from the very first hello, then every other time they say each other. From the eager smiles when they saw each other again, every kiss, even when they were fake, and even more when they were real; every single time since, Martín said yes. He said yes to anything that Andrés asked. He went along with every one of his ideas. He fell instantly, and he fell _hard_.

And Andrés…. How could he say no to having his own worshipper? His own Lover, while he remained there, the Beloved, getting swept up by the thrill, the devotion. And it was not selfish of Andrés, it was how things always fell into place. Martín had no regrets for being allowed so close, for being given the chance to fucking love him. 

But then, the disappointment was bound to come. Martín was a useless, helpless thing that Andrés had to protect with his own life, that could not come to his aid when Andes needed him most. And when this veil finally lifts off of Andrés’ eyes and sees Martín for who he is, _well_. It will hurt, sure, but it won’t be unexpected.

What did Mirko say? ‘ _Sometimes it’s like this._ ’

“Martín.” Andrés looks at him, and the fucker looks like he almost— like he can read his mind. “No,” he says firmly, “ _no_. I love you. I love you, and—”

“I know,” Martín says, like it isn’t the worst, most self-serving thing to say. _I know,_ not ‘I love you too’, because he’s newly but firmly afraid that if he puts that out there, if he makes it real, he sets an end date to everything. He scrunches his brow. “It’s fine,” he says when he doesn’t know how to end the conversation.

“You’re right, your ‘fine’ is not ‘fine’ at all. Martín, come here.”

Martín looks at the space between them on the couch - it’s not a lot, but he closes it, sitting beside Andrés, who settles to face him.

“The first time you told me about what you studied, your face opened up like— like a flower under sunlight; your passion was palpable. I was drawn back to the bookstore, back to you, just to hear you speak about the things you love. You’re that very first thought that really took me by surprise, the way you popped up in my dreams. And then, Martín— everything about you, it’s _kismet_. You turn out to be everything I need. _Everything_. That first time we dined together, when you did those calculations just like that, how you got sucked in the problem, with the solution already forming in your mind as I was speaking. And then to see your mind at work, Martín, it was— It was like watching the image show up in a painter’s mind right before it’s poured out on the paper. You’re a wonder, Martín.”

Martín feels like crumbling under the weight of all that - probably not the intended outcome, there is a little voice inside him that he snuffs out. He’s not that. He can’t—

"You are everything I want, and more. You need to see it. I don't know what's going on with you right now, but trust me? _Trust me_. I love you. You need to let yourself have this. “

Andrés doesn’t let him get any deeper inside his mind.

“We’re going to the bedroom now, or we’re not going to make it. And I want you on the bed.”

_Of course_ , Martín thinks dumbly as he stumbles up and towards the bedroom, momentarily distracted by the new change in plans. His dick was always the one to throw him off his tracks - he very well remembers the consequences of that when he was paralyzed in his seat in that van, when he understood that Andrés had been taken— 

But no, he won’t be thinking about that, if there was ever a moment to give his dick the reigns, this was it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and Andrés stops right in front of him, beginning to work on his shirt buttons. He’s looking down, keeping eye contact when he’s taking his clothes off, methodically and utilitarian but getting the full effect of a show regardless - Martín is watching, enrapt. 

“Let me,” Andrés says and Martín doesn’t know what he means, and he can’t really spare a neuron to try and figure it out. Not with Andrés like that, naked and fucking stunning, looking down on him with a smile before he drops to his knees. Instinctively, presumptuously, Martín opens his own legs wider, and Andrés gets closer, close enough to touch, and gets both hands on Martín’s thighs. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

He wasn’t the only one. Martín feels like his thoughts are firing through thick honey, he feels slow and sticky when Andrés works on his pants button and zipper. He looks down, a shiver in his inhale, a small shudder of— 

Doesn’t matter, all that matters is that Andrés is getting his hand in his boxer briefs, and he’s touching him, pulling the fabric down. The cool air in the room feels harsh against his dick, but then it’s replaced by the hot, wet breath that Andrés exhales right before licking him from base to tip. It doesn’t really do much in terms of sensations, but the imagery is enough to make his cock twitch and harden further, and then it’s all overwhelmed by the feeling of the lips closing around his cock. A lick under the head, a brief suck, then Andrés pops off and licks his lips with a hum.

“Lean back.”

Martín wants nothing more than to sink back into the mattress, to close his eyes and to give in to the sensations; but he can’t, he _viscerally_ needs to see Andrés with a mouthful of his cock. He leans back on his hands, still ending up with a great view of the ceiling when Andrés closes his lips around his cock again and takes him deeper, starting on an uneven rhythm. 

“Fuck, Andrés—”

‘ _You’re a natural_ ’, he wants to say, because Andrés may not have had the skill, but he has every bit the enthusiasm, he is moaning and closing his hand around the part that he can't yet take in his mouth. He’s slow and careful - where Martín would have had him is his throat already, Andrés moves in short, sure moves. He’s not taking him deep, he’s working the tip, all wet and hot and messy, Martín lifts his head back to watch him, and the view just— 

_Andrés_. Fucking Andrés, right there, on his knees between his legs, so unashamedly dedicated, so openly enjoying himself. He grows bolder, letting his hand dig lower, cupping Martín’s balls gently, then coming down to take them into his mouth, and Martín—

He’s trying really really hard to enjoy this just the right amount and not all at once. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Andrés says, filthily licking at his cockhead, “relax.”

It takes Martín a second to understand it, to feel just how tense he was, his hands fisted in the sheet behind him, his thighs locked, every muscle of his body wound like he was coiled to jump into a sprint. He lets go of it with an exhale, finally sliding back against the sheets. Andrés only hums, then goes back to it, taking him deeper and deeper, with an obscene slurp and a twist to his sticky hand. 

Giving in is easier now because Martín’s decided to stop fighting it - to stop fighting himself - and to just enjoy it. And it’s an easy journey, now that he’s given in, to let the burning in his belly join the ball of raw, desperate love that’s coiled in his heart. Because god _damn,_ he loved Andrés. 

It’s deeper than the usual sort of love he felt for anyone currently sucking his dick; although that’s definitely making everything feel brighter, _more_ than it usually does. Like this, he’s cresting the wave way sooner than he’s honestly ready for it. He feels his balls draw up, and then Andrés’ hand cups them, so unexpected, so fucking hot; and it’s dirty and noisy and it gets too much, too fast. Before he has time to warn, to ask for permission, he’s coming, hotly, in Andrés’ mouth. 

Martín was not ready for that. Any of it.

His whole body tingles with the aftershocks, melting back into the mattress below. Andrés climbs up on his elbows, drops down for a kiss that Martín falls into with his whole being. 

“I love you,” Andrés says, again, and again Martín feels the words get stuck in his throat. “I know it’s a lot, I know—” Martín decides to swallow his words, whatever he had to say, but Andrés fights him, breaking away. “I wish you could see what I see, Martín.”

Martín sort of wishes that, too. 

Andrés pushes away and off him. “Can you take off your clothes for me?”

Martín strips, slowly, trying to not give in to the bundle of things that flood his head and heart alike. He sits, naked, on the edge of the bed, then comes up to straddle Andrés when prompted to. He’s still buzzing, still coming down but he’s aching inside, aching to make Andrés feel just as good.

They’re just kissing, Martín drops close to Andrés’ chest, but not quite touching. He loved this, Andrés under him, it fed something in him, something that was twisted but made perfect sense - to him, at least. Like— like the amount of trust he inherently had in Andrés, and what it meant when Andrés said that he loved him. 

“I’d like to make love to you,” said Andrés, the perfect mix of syrupy old-fashioned romance lines and raw magnetism. Martín’s not sure he can even form words, let alone the appropriate mix of them for that line, so he nods.

  


He ends up face down, buried among the mess of pillows that Andrés, once again, has to move out of the way so that he can breathe. That breath, however, gets stuck in his throat when Andrés buries himself inside him, slowly, until his hips are flush with Martín’s ass.

“You’re so beautiful, Martín,” says Andrés, coming down on his hands to drape himself over Martín’s back. 

It’s hot, and Andrés’ weight is making it hard to breathe properly, but he’s actually loving the feeling, the way it grounds him. Then Andrés’ breath comes, hotly, against his ear; not words, but the filthiest groans that vibrate and simmer down Martín’s spine. He moves slowly, caressing Martín’s skin, rolling his hips in a way that feels— _sweet_. 

There was something about their dynamic, and this newly found duality inside Martín that made him be both the same confident, often cocky bastard he always was, and this oddly insecure new guy. Because he can’t say it, he can’t fucking—

“Andrés, _fuck_ — harder.” He tries to push up, to push back, but Andrés is heavy above him, and leans in heavier when he feels Martín squirming. He tries to fight him, his body suddenly lit by this itch that can’t let him be still, can’t let him be there, like that, treated so gently, so lovingly, he can’t— 

He pushes up, grunting, pushing Andrés off.

“What’s wrong?”

Martín shakes his head. 

“I don’t— I don’t.” He gives up, drawing his knees under his chin, looking out, lost. He’s restless and he can’t put a name on it, there’s something that he needs; he doesn’t know why, but he just _needs_ it. It forms in his mind, distorted at first, then clearer and clearer. “Hurt me,” he says, looking at Andrés blankly. There surely was an appropriate emotion for how he was feeling, but he couldn’t form it. Whatever it was, Andrés understood.

He doesn’t ask if he’s sure, which Martín is thankful for, for some reason. He’s watching him intently, then nodding slowly.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to be rough,” Martín says, but doesn’t know how to put it into words. Because what he needs is to feel small, insignificant and still - _useful_. Loved. Here, with Andrés, just the two of them, right here, right now, where he is safe and he can be that— because he can’t do it out there, not again. That’s not who he is. 

But here, in this bubble, only here; he can give in to it. He needs it.

“I need you to be mean. Hurt me. Slap me. Hold me down and fuck me, just— Please.” 

Just the fact that he could actually say that; all of that, out loud. He didn’t even blush, because that; that right there. The way he trusted Andrés enough to tell him any of that. With words. With a plea. 

  


He’s on his knees on the floor in front of Andrés, his own cock dribbling a wet, cold string of precome, his hands clasped behind his back and tears joining the spit on his chin. Andrés’ cock is buried in his throat, a hand pressing on the back of his neck, mashing his nose against his skin. He can’t think, not in any way that would make sense, so he enjoys the way his head falls empty, and he’s driven by sensations alone. 

Andrés’ other hand grabs his chin, pushes him off and Martín almost loses his balance. He looks up, panting, coughing once, then swallowing hard around his sore throat. 

“Look at me,” says Andrés with a new tenor in his voice, one that Martín can hear is born in arousal, “you look so good on your knees, Martin. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Martín looks at Andrés, head full of cotton and tongue heavy. _Yes_ , he thinks. _I was_. He feels like he’s swaying, but nothing around him is moving, so—

When Andrés’ palm hits him, quick and sharp, catching a bit of his cheekbone, Martín does sway. He’s momentarily stunned, instinctively lifts his hand to touch his face, already warming where Andrés had slapped him. _That_.

“Yes,” he says, way too firm for how sluggish it all felt inside his head. He realizes just then that his ‘yes’ wasn’t to Andrés’ question, it was his reaction to the slap, because— that.

“Do it again,” he says, catching Andrés’ eyes. “Please,” he adds, though he’s not docile when he asks.

This time he’s prepared, he closes his eyes right as Andrés’ arm draws back, and feels his palm hit again, in the same spot, hard enough to make his teeth rattle. His head flies with the force of the blow, and he keeps his eyes shut, his chest heaving, tingling with this _thing_ , this shudder that slices through him and leaves him raw and quiet inside.

Andrés’ hand cups his chin again, lifting his head up and he opens his eyes, though it’s quite an effort. Andrés studies him, then lifts his head ever so slightly. 

“Get on the bed, on all fours. I want to fuck you now.”

When he doesn’t move - not that he doesn’t want to, he finds that he can’t - Andrés offers him a hand and guides him there. Martín feels like he’s moving through water, slow and heavy, and only manages to jolt a little closer to the surface when Andrés pushes back inside him in one rough slide. 

All he wants is to drop back against the mattress, to let Andrés fuck into him just like he was, to let him take, to ju _st be there_ , but Andrés gets one hand under his chest and pulls him up on his knees. He goes up, his thighs shaking until he rests against Andrés, leaning his head on his shoulder. 

He’s vapor.

The change in angle, the way blood rushes back to his head, the buzz deafening him for a few moments; it seems to make him sink further into himself. And then one of Andrés’ hands lifts slowly, raising goosebumps in its wake as it slides up Martín’s chest and wraps around his neck.

Andrés fucks him with a tight snap of his hips, one hand wrapped tightly around Martín’s bony hip, the other tightening slowly around his neck, never too much, just— right.

The touch has a taste, and it pulses in the back of his throat in time with Andrés’ thrusts. He feels on fire, and the pleasure is moving in waves, coursing through him until he falls into it, into himself. 

It’s all hazy; sensations, time, the motion of their bodies, and the sounds they make; he’s there but he’s not. He’s aware of Andrés’ cock pistoning inside him, he feels the burn, the burst of shock-sensation when he brushes past his prostate, making his own cock twitch and drip further, a pathetic string that paints his belly, cold and wet. 

As his vision’s getting speckly and sparkly, as he hears Andrés say something, something he can’t discern but he can feel the tone of, the shape of the words, he feels it - right as it happens. His thighs clench, he stiffens and arches back, and everything, every conscious thought he has focuses on his cock, and he’s coming, untouched, clear across his belly and the mattress below. 

His fingers are wrapped around Andrés’ arm, the one holding him tight, and he sinks back further, held upright by Andrés alone, who’s not stopping, but he’s letting go of his grip around Martín’s throat and moves his hand higher.

“Open,” he says, and Martín barely registers. The hand presses on his cheeks and he slowly opens his mouth, and Andrés’ fingers slip inside, pressing against his tongue. Martín is still feeling the fingers around his throat, even now when they hook behind his teeth, pressing into the spongy flesh under his tongue. He’s drooling, moaning through his nose, pushing back, wordlessly asking for more, for faster.

Andrés comes with a deep moan hidden in the crook of his neck, burying himself sharply with a final thrust before he stills, and Martín can feel his cock pulse and spurt and empty inside him as he shudders. 

The fingers in his mouth relax when Andrés exhales, and he withdraws them. His touch is slick and wet when he’s cupping Martín’s jaw once again, gently this time, to angle him back enough to give him a strained kiss.

  


Martín’s not quite sure of how the rest of the night goes. He knows that Andrés helps him clean up, offers to sleep on the wet spot, then cuddles the limp, barely-there Martín until sleep finally claims him. 

Tuesdays were notoriously slow days at the bookstore. It was a rainy day too, not a lot of tourists either, no shipments of books. Just a long, grey day that seemed to beg for introspection. 

“What if I _actually_ like him, Martín? What if that’s really why I couldn’t do it? Because there’s something more?”

Dario didn’t break up with Mirkko last night. And even though Mirko said he’d break up with Dario if he doesn’t do it first, he didn’t go through with it, either. And it’s been bugging him all day.

Martín let him speak, whenever he started in a small flurry of confusion that ended as abruptly as it started, in deep sighs. He didn’t want to tell Mirko what he thought was the _real_ reason, which was the fact that Dario was real fucking pretty and, by the looks of it, quite the amazing lay. He keeps the theory to himself, sure that Mirko would eventually get there on his own.

He doesn’t feel as talkative as Mirko, though. He barely says anything, and when he does, it’s all bookstore talk. Mirko is deep enough in his own bullshit to inquire about Martín, so he can think in peace. 

Mirko’s phone rings just as they’re closing up. It’s Dario. He’s coming over later, so Martín needs to make himself scarce. He feels like he should go back to Andrés’ place, but there’s something keeping him, like this time he’s the one that needs a moment alone. When he gets home, he quickly changes into a (tight) shirt, puts on his leather jacket, ruffles his hair just right, then heads out.

  


Martín settles at a club, one he’s never been inside before, a little more upscale than his usual spots from his Uni days. He’s barely one drink in, just starting on his second, when he finally catches a good spot at one of the standing ledges that are doubling for tables. The place is already teeming with people, cheering and dancing, with surprisingly good music and good-quality liquor.

He doesn’t know why he’s there. He certainly hasn’t drunk enough to feel like dancing, but, well— he’s working on it. The music thumps and vibrates loudly, and Martín realizes it might not be the most appropriate place for introspection. But he feels— oddly centered. Confident. He feels like his regular self, like some sort of veil has been lifted, all that previous insecurity gone. Surprising, but very much welcomed. 

He’s not thinking of anything when he looks around and suddenly locks eyes with this guy. He’s resting his weight on one foot against the wall and leaning against it lazily, and he seems to be— smiling at Martín? Nah; it’s dark, alcohol is involved, he’s surely imagining it. A few minutes of staring around later, Martín looks back and yep, the guy was definitely looking at him. Martín raises his glass and all he means to say is a cordial ‘ _¡Arriba, abajo, al centro, pa' dentro!_ ’ but the guy pushes off the wall when he’s halfway through his movements. He stills with the glass pressed to his lips as the guy approaches him, confidently, and touches Martín’s glass with his own, then raises it. 

Martín’s eyes go wide with a few simultaneous realizations. Firstly, the guy is really, really handsome. Like, Burberry-model handsome. Secondly, whatever was in his glass, it was not a typical shot-drink, and yet the guy downs it all in one gulp, then smiles brightly. 

“Buy you another?” the guy offers, already looking to the bar.

“I’m still not done with this one.”

“I can keep you company while you work on that.”

“Sure.”

“Luis," he offers his hand and Martin awkwardly shakes it.

“Gabriel,” Martín lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note - ‘ _¡Arriba, abajo, al centro, pa' dentro!_ ’ - a toast that pretty much means “glass up, glass down, glass up / toast, bottoms’ up / drink/”
> 
> Same note, sorry to be pedantic ~~but it's important to me~~ \- breath play (as well as impact play) can be dangerous.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one can see his smile, the deep breath he takes, walking with his eyes closed for a few steps; it feels like he’s flying. That’s really how things have been for him lately - like flying. He’d been swept up by this hurricane, and he’s found his way to the eye of the storm. He opens his eyes, and it’s half the feeling that he’d burst if he doesn’t, half the fact that he’d gotten lost in his own metaphors. He laughs as he’s approaching the end of this strange corridor, and no one pays him any attention even as he blends in with the trickle of people on the sidewalk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shakes fist* _Luis!!!_

Luis is an assistant manager with a “currently boring, but promising political career ahead of him”. Martín smiles pleasantly, and _continues_ _to lie_. Without even blinking, he tells Luis that he’s an art student on vacation from Córdoba, and that he’s rooming at a hostel nearby. A very relevant seed that he plants early, because, well. Martin has a plan. 

His talks with Andrés have certainly helped him pass for an art student, but luckily Luis isn’t too interested in his person, the music is loud and the light dimmed. They dance, Luis is handsy and Martín flirts like the pro that he is. A few too many shots later (on Luis’ side), and they are outside the thumping club, and Luis has Martín crowded against the wall, hands buried in his jeans pockets, feeling him up. 

“ _Guys_.” That’s all that the bouncer has to say, firm and yet somehow polite, and Luis peels himself off of Martín and starts looking around.

“Hostel, you said?”

“Yeah, the Metropolitano. It’s not far, but I think my roommates might have a few objections if we moved all of this... there.”

“Yeah, that won’t do. And my place isn’t an option either at the moment.”

Luis ponders for a couple of minutes, flushed with alcohol and arousal, then looks at his watch and draws a breath.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“I never kiss and tell.”

“Good,” Luis says, and calls a cab.

  


Well, Luis wasn’t an assistant manager, like he’d told Martin. He was an assistant, sure, but a personal assistant. To the Governor. Which Martín knew, from doing his research on the staff at the official residence back when they tried to steal that hard drive. And failed. 

Martín was surprised to see Luis there, in that club. He knew that the Governor moved houses after their (failed) break-in, that he has temporarily moved to his other place in Madrid while his security team made upgrades to his official residence. Martín knew all that because they still needed that data, but they also were adamantly against pulling heists in the city that they were currently residing. So Sergio was still waiting for the right time to make another move, but Martín— he’d already made up his mind. 

Because, see, Martín was very quick on his feet. He recognized Luis instantly, before he’d even gotten close enough to talk, and was working through a thousand possibilities right as he was talking to the guy. And what he didn’t already know, he found out from the little exchanges he’s managed to have with Luis between the lewd dancing and the heavy kissing.

Luis was the type of guy with no moral qualms about dragging a one night stand to his work place with the express intent to have sex there - which Martín found oddly helpful of him, in context. Martín carefully memorized how Luis sneaked him in, the route he took to avoid detection, and as soon as he found himself in the little basement room that Luis optimistically called his ‘office’, he turned the key in the lock, then threw Luis against the nearest wall and started to kiss him in earnest. 

Luis was just tall enough to have Martín up on his tiptoes at times, straining to catch his lips when he playfully broke away, panting, teasing. And whether it was primarily the arousal or the arousal _and_ the tingle of adrenaline, but Martín was getting very into it, cupping the back of Luis’ neck and playing with the short hair there as he angled his head just right. 

Luis was a very tactile kisser, who touched Martín’s entire body while they kissed, long fingers drawing down his chest and up his thigh and— Martín gasps against his cheek when Luis’ fingers grope him, rudely, through his jeans. And when his other hand goes straight for his jeans button, Martín stops him. Because— Well.

Luis was very, very drunk. 

Luis was also decidedly not Andrés. 

But Martín knew what he was doing. It wasn’t difficult to get his own rum and coke without the rum, all the while making sure that Luis was getting properly drunk - not drunk enough that the whole evening was ruined, but just drunk enough to do… precisely what he just did, and think that it was a good idea. And once Luis got to that place where he didn’t seem to be fully aware of just how drunk he was while it was perfectly obvious to all around him, Martín stopped him.

“I have a better idea,” he says, retreating just a step back, making Luis follow. “Get in that chair.”

Martín kiss-walked the increasingly drunk Luis right to the middle of the room, hooking his foot under the leg of the chair to angle it enough to drop Luis in it at the end of a dizzying spin. He had just enough time to congratulate himself for not dropping Luis before the man was already snoring, with his head tilted back and one hand falling limply from his lap.

He pops back the button of his jeans and treads his hand through his hair, looking around. It’s a work night, so the Governor should be in, but it’s late enough that it’s not likely that he’d be in his office. But Martín hasn’t had the time to look at the building plans, he has no idea where his office is, and even if he did - he doesn’t have Sergio’s safe-cracking device. So what he can do, while he’s there, is some very limited reconnaissance. 

The room is larger than he initially thought - not that he could get a good look, what with Luis octopussed around him - but it dwarfs under the dim yellow light and the large, dark paintings on the walls. The chair he’s just deposited Luis in sat in front of a desk, and there was a rather empty bookshelf on the opposite wall and a small filing cabinet beside it. Martín ponders whether to check the filing cabinet first, or the computer sitting so tantalizingly on the desk, and ultimately chooses the computer.

He sits down, folding his hands on his lap, and looks around. There are a couple of folders on the corner of the desk, but from the labels and the bits of paper sticking out, it seems to be just official functions paperwork and purchase orders for supplies. To be expected, given the nature of Luis’ “currently boring” job. 

Martín looks at the computer with hopeful interest. He’s hopeful because there’s a neon-green post-it note sticking out from under the keyboard, and Martín is quite ready to bet his entire three hundred thousand euro that it was the computer password. He’ll check it out in a second, but first— He bends down to look under the desk, because he thought he saw something with the corner of his eye, something he couldn’t quite place consciously, but that got his attention nonetheless.

The computer has an old tower case that certainly used to be white the many years ago when it was purchased, but now was a yellowish shade of beige, and one of its sides was opened to reveal a mess of cables and other dusty computer innards. All of it was caked in a layer of dust so thick it was a wonder that not the thing hadn’t spontaneously combusted, all of it except a shiny new hard disk that was dust-free enough to signal that it was recently mounted.

Martín sits back against the chair and hooks his hands behind his head. He can’t possibly be this lucky.

But what if he is?

He leans over the keyboard, memorizing the position of the post-it before gently pulling it away and turning on the humming computer. 

_Luis_. 

Martín leans to the side to look at his sleeping form, sending him small thanks for his carelessness. The intricate string of symbols that some well-intentioned IT person must have given him was indeed the computer’s password, and Martín shakes his head, smiling. Any system is as vulnerable as its weakest link, and in this case, the link was Luis - beautiful, boozed-up, and bad-with-technology Luis.

He’s careful when he places the post-it back, and he starts clicking as soon as the computer boots up. The desktop was a mess of icons, but that’s not Martín is looking for - he checks the system storage and takes a deep breath because he couldn’t _possibly_ be that lucky.

He looks at Luis again, and gets up from his chair, walking over and removing his pocket square. Fine, he had a _type_ \- he blames Andrés for forever shifting his expectations. 

Before he sits, Martín has another bright flash of an idea. His house keys. More specifically, the thumb drive he always had hooked to his house keys. Okay, so it was a completely unplanned _plan,_ but luck was actually on his side this time. He leans to plug it in the only open port, then sits back, placing the napkin (a pocket square by any other name is still a napkin, as much as Andrés tries to protest) on the mouse, wiping it down and clicking further. 

If the gods decided to smile on him, Martín would better not disappoint. He copies the clearly encrypted contents of the drive onto his tumb drive, then turns the computer off. He makes sure to wipe down anything he’s touched, retrieves his thumb drive and buries his keys back in his jeans pocket. 

It’s barely been five minutes, he’s done something that almost got Andrés and himself killed not that long ago, and his heart-rate is as steady as if he was mindlessly fixing shelves. _That’s_ who he was, he smiles and looks around, feeling strangely vindicated. This is the Martín that managed to mentally map a whole partially collapsed building right after an unexpected explosion; the Martín that managed to get away from any tight spot he might have found himself in. 

He’s ready to make himself scarce, but before that— He walks over to Luis, kneeling in front of him, where he was slumped in the chair. He’s still asleep, though the snoring has muffled a bit. Martín leans to undo his pants, opening the fly like pretty petals, then pulls his shirt messily up. 

There - Luis can get to whatever conclusion he wants now.

He leans closer to the door and once he’s sure there’s no one out there, he turns the lock and sneaks off. 

  


The adrenaline rush hits him when he’s a couple of kilometers away, making him speed up to a near sprint. He could have gotten a cab along the way, he’s considered it a couple of times when a few passed him, but he had too much bottled-up energy to be able to sit down for that long. So he’s walking, letting his feet carry him wherever, and his cheeks are flushed and tingling. 

Who knew that crime could make you feel so rejuvenated, and provide such a confidence boost?

It’s not even midnight, so as soon as he gets to the city center, he relaxes - the sidewalks are bustling with people, there’s laughter and muted beats, the odd guitar. In the air hangs energy that matches how Martín feels inside, bursting with the vastness of a thousand possibilities. 

_Sonder_ , it’s what he’s feeling, the realization that everybody around him was a person too, as much of a protagonist in their own lives as Martín was, with their own worries and insecurities, with families and plans and all those things, small but necessary. He gets stuck watching the couple walking in front of him, how their bodies move closer, almost unconsciously, how their hands hang so close to each other, getting ever closer, a little finger sticking out before he catches her hand in his. The small squeeze she gives back, the way she leans into him, tucking herself into his arm; Martín watches, enrapt, only looking away to swiftly cross the street. 

He loses the couple and takes a small street between two tall buildings, drawn in by the ostensibly white artificial lighting that was almost humming. It’s just him and his footsteps echo in the strange silence, and Martín walks with conviction, but no plan. 

No one can see his smile, the deep breath he takes, walking with his eyes closed for a few steps; it feels like he’s flying. That’s really how things have been for him lately - like flying. He’d been swept up by this hurricane, and he’s found his way to the eye of the storm. He opens his eyes, and it’s half the feeling that he’d burst if he doesn’t, half the fact that he’d gotten lost in his own metaphors. He laughs as he’s approaching the end of this strange corridor, and no one pays him any attention even as he blends in with the trickle of people on the sidewalk.

Martín speeds up - he knows where he’s going, now consciously as well - so he puts one foot in front of the other, not stopping until he’s in front of Andrés’ building. By the looks of it, Andrés is either sleeping or not home. Martin leans on the intercom and keeps pressing the buzzer until the ringing stops and a gruff voice asks, ‘who is it’.

“It’s me. Martí—” he starts to add, helpful, but the door unlocks before he finishes.

He takes the stairs, two at a time, and when he gets to the second floor, the door to Andrés’ apartment is ajar. He pushes it, revealing a sleep-dazed Andrés, squinting at him with badly-hidden annoyance. 

"Is everything okay?”

“Everything is perfect,” he says, taking a page from Andrés’ own book and stepping in without waiting to be invited in. Andrés closes the door behind him, then looks at him with a deep sigh. 

“Were you sleeping?” Martín asks, stupidly, as though it wasn’t obvious from Andrés’ whole demeanor, and the rather lovely robe that he had over his pajamas. So formal, so pretentious, so fucking attractive.

“Yes. Long day.” And then he looks at Martín, expecting more information, but Martín’s gotten distracted. That robe. That robe was pretty. Andrés was pretty. Well, he was handsome, even now, when he was half-asleep and grumpy. 

Andrés was handsome and Martín was still pumping with adrenaline, with fucking _success_ after feeling inexplicably useless for so long. 

“I like your robe,” Martín says, approaching Andrés slowly, with a sly smile. 

“Thank you.”

Martín gets close enough that Andrés leans back against the door, looking at him confused. A kiss was all he wanted, so he leans in and gets it. Andrés tastes like mint, and he deepens the kiss, cupping his face between his palms. He can feel Andrés’ smile in the kiss, sees it when Andrés breaks away, breathing just a little bit deeper. 

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Well, here I am,” Martín says, then lets his fingers brush down the lapels of that robe. It’s silk, as are the pajamas that Andrés is wearing underneath. He trails his fingers down until he gets to the belt and he gently pulls at one end, and the knot slips loose easily. He’s looking down, opening the sides of the robe slightly. The pajamas that Andrés is wearing underneath are a deep, dark blue, and Martín brushes his fingers down the slippery, shimmering fabric.

“Let’s—” Andrés starts, but Martín doesn’t let him finish; he kisses him again, getting himself flush to his chest, slotting their bodies as close as he can, resting his hands on either side of Andrés. “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” says Andrés, as soon as he catches his breath.

Martín hums, but doesn’t move away. He presses closer, trailing his fingers on the inside of Andrés’ arm now, lower and lower, over shimmering creases until he passes the cuff, and he touches the soft skin on the wrist, the slightly rougher texture of the palm, then Andrés’ fingers thread around his own. There’s not a second of hesitation there, no coyness, no need to even look. Martín offered his hand and Andrés took it. 

He smiles when he’s looking at Andrés, who seems to have no idea of the little band that snapped inside Martín’s head. It snapped, whatever was still holding that door, and Martín feels light.

“I love you.”

Then he shrugs. 

Andrés’ lips are soft when they kiss him, he keeps their fingers interlocked while he reaches up with his other hand and cups Martín’s jaw gently. 

Martín is the first to break the lock of their fingers, to wrap his hands around Andrés’ hips and to pull him closer, and Andrés deepens the kiss, making it _dirty_. It takes him just a little bit higher, having said it back, ramping up the thrill he felt since getting out of the Governor’s residence.

Andrés is hard too, the obvious shape of his cock pressing against his own through layers and layers that they both become aware of simultaneously. His hands fly to his own jeans just as Andrés’ do as well, pushing them down his hips as Martín works at the button and zipper. The crowded shuffle they do is as graceful as it can be, with hands that bat each other away as they slot their cocks together, grinding blindly before Martín gets a hand around them both. 

He slaps his other hand on the door, cursing when Andrés fucks closer, his forehead on Martín’s, their breaths mingling hotly between them. It’s maybe a bit dry, but Martín can’t stop, considers getting his other hand around them too but can’t spare the lifeline that keeps him upright, where he’s leaning against the door. 

Andrés grunts, shifting, squeezing a hand between them, raising it to Martín’s face. “Spit,” he says, and Martín looks at the hand for a half of brain-numb second before he understands, and spits. It feels like it should be gross but he can’t seem to be able to feel that emotion, not with his ass is hanging out of his jeans, half-covered by the tails of his shirt, and Andrés’ hand wrapping around both of them, above Martín’s. 

They’re working on the most primal level, rutting into their hands, breathing each other’s air and making broken noises that are unrestrained and raw. Martín startles when thin fingers cup his jaw - he loves it when Andrés does that, when he holds him like he was precious art to be cared for, to be admired - and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

He hears it, even though there is no sound but their breaths, the slick slide of their hands and the rustling of thier clothes, he hears that fucking ‘I love you’ that Andrés had been so generous with. He melts in it, in this bliss of fresh love that’s overwhelming like a sickly sweet perfume, and he has a revelation. Andrés throbs against his cock, dripping more precome that he slicks his hand with and _twists_ , and Martín’s knees are buckling when he thinks, _fuck it_. It’s worth it, all of it is worth it; it’s worth going through with it, with the plan, with Andrés, with this mad ride that he’s embarked on and only now truly accepts and understands. 

It’s worth it even if they crash and burn, even if Andrés is the one to fall out of love as easily as he falls into it. If it’s blind faith or hopeless optimism or just a complete lack of preservation instincts, Martín doesn’t know. All he knows is that he doesn’t care.

There’s the sound of a door opening, a couple of muffled voices, some laughter - the neighbors from across the hall are apparently going out, Martín can hear their shuffling from the other side of the door. Andrés hears it too, eyes opened wide, and he tries to still his hand but Martín doesn’t - with an impish grin, he strokes faster, pasting an open-mouthed smile to Andrés’ jaw. 

“Come on,” he urges, moaning louder, forcing Andrés to stifle his noises with a kiss. They move, a slick, hot squeeze that echoes deep in his gut. His knuckles catch the hem of his shirt, so he squirms, and Andrés grabs a fistful of the fabric and lifts it, cold air bringing goosebumps on Martín’s belly. It’s going to be messy, he thinks before he can’t seem to think at all, when Andrés lets go of his shirt again, burning his hand in the back of Martín’s jeans and grabbing a handful of his ass, pressing him closer. 

“Martín—” He finishes the sentence with a kiss, stealing Martín’s breath, keeping their lips locked until Martín’s lungs burn, but he’s not breaking away. Air seems secondary to the feeling that’s building up in his groin, lit by the friction of skin against skin against skin, the velvet of Andrés’ dick, the slickness of his palm, and the rush-pump of blood he feels inside him and out. 

Andrés comes first, with a grunt that sends a jolt of _something_ down Martín’s spine, sparkling a feedback loop that has Martín coming too, messily, between their bodies, across their clothes. They pulse in a counter-tempo punctuated by heavy breaths and an open-mouthed kiss, and Martín can feel that Andrés’ thighs are just as shaky as his are, where they’re pressed against each other. 

They've made a mess of their clothes just like he knew they would; Martín's already wrinkly shirt has gone full-on Pollock, as has Andrés' pajama. The silk is stained with long streaks that stand out against the shiny fabric, and it looks strangely decadent instead of dirty.

When Martín finds enough strength to push against the door, looking down between themselves and wondering if getting his come-sticky dick back in his pants would be a good idea or if he could just… let it hang, quite literally, Andrés grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulling him close and making him almost lose his already shaky footing.

“So you came all the way, in the dead of night just to tell me that?”

Martín nods, drawing a deep breath, before suddenly shaking his head. 

“No, actually. Not at all, wow,” he suddenly feels inadequate to be talking about this with his dick out and covered in come, but there he was - but at least he isn’t the only one. Andrés is way too relaxed and confident for someone with his pants halfway down his ass and his dick in the wind, like it’s no big deal. “Um,” Martín frowns, trying to get his thoughts away from dicks and back on track. “I got your data.”

“What?”

“The drive, from the Governors’ house? I got it. Or rather, I got the data from the drive. The plan is back on track.”

Andrés looks rightfully confused, and Martín straightens himself and takes a step back.

“What do you mean?”

Right. He hasn’t quite thought of how he’d actually tell Andrés all the details of his evening.

“Can we get out of these clothes first? I feel really weird hanging out like this.” He makes a small gesture towards his crotch, wiping his hand on the front of his shirt - it’s definitely going in the wash, so— 

“Why? You have a lovely dick.”

Martín laughs, a little exasperated because he doesn’t feel very compliment-worthy. There’s a good chance that Andrés won’t like the particular method he’s employed to get that information, and he decides that it’s a problem better suited for future-Martín, not immediately-post-orgasm Martín. 

“Let’s get cleaned up. Loan me some pajamas? And maybe a shirt too for tomorrow. You’re right, I really should keep a change of clothes here.”

Andrés nods, leading the way to the nearest bathroom. They strip in the small room, tossing their clothes in the hamper, and Martín resorts to doing the extremely dignified thing of washing his dick in the sink. 

Andrés brings him his toothbrush from the other bathroom and for a few minutes, while they get cleaned and ready for bed (in a pair of Andrés’ pajamas), they forget all about the data and the uncomfortable talk that it’s sure to bring. The moratorium lasts until they get out of the small bathroom, and Andrés makes a small detour to the kitchen, with Martín following without a second thought.

“Tell me about the drive,” Andrés says, handing Martín a cold glass of water and leaning back against the sink. 

Right, so they’re doing this here. Martín takes a seat at the table, pointedly not looking at the clock on the wall. Exhaustion is catching up with him; a different kind of drop, and Martín can feel it in his whole body. He takes a sip of water as means to give himself a few more seconds to think. 

“I managed to get inside the Governor’s place here in Madrid—”

“You did what?” Andrés’ reaction, Martín feels, is disproportionate to the calm tone that Martín tried to employ. “They have your face, Martín.”

“No, they don’t. Luis got me in through the back door,” which, because he’s suddenly nervous and still sixteen at heart, makes him chuckle. Andrés stops him.

“Who’s Luis?”

“Luis Marcello, the Governor’s assistant.” And then he stops.

“And how— or rather, _why_ did Luis Marcello let you in the Governor’s house through the back door?”

“Well, the important thing is that I got the data.”

“It is, yes.”

Martín deflects. He runs his mouth, hoping that somehow Andrés will overlook the unspoken bits and the time-jumps in his story if he just— talks.

“I think the Governor’s security team moved the drive to an inconspicuous place, away from the office since they gathered that’s where prospective thieves would look for it. Or maybe they put it in a place no one would think to look for while they ramped up the security of that place. Either way, it happened to be in Luis’ office, so I copied it. There’s no trace that I was even there, no trace that I copied the data. It was the perfect plan.” 

“And _Luis_ ,” somehow Andrés manages to make his name sound like a bit of an insult, “how did he feel about you copying that data?”

“To be fair, he wasn’t feeling a whole lot, he was sleeping.”

Andrés looks at him, sternly, and Martín feels like making himself small. Again, he feels like a student caught cheating, ears reddening, being confronted in front of the class. Except there was no one else there, which somehow make it even worse. Andrés knows what he’s doing, he knows that if he’s silent for long enough Martín will feel the need to fill the silence. Which he does, very much so, when Andrés’ eyes start bore into him in a way that gives him a full-body itch. 

“Okay, so I picked him up in a bar. Or rather, he picked me up. I knew who he was, I also knew that his parents live in Madrid so he’d probably stay with them while in town. I then found out that his alcohol tolerance was pretty low, and that I was right about his lodging situation. In his infinite wisdom, he decided to take me to his place of employment.”

“To fuck.”

“I mean, yeah?” Martín feels squirmy and it seeps out of him through the restless bouncing of his knee. “We didn’t, though— I wouldn’t have. We just, you know. Made out.”

“Why you Mata Hari, you.” Andrés is more amused than anything, setting his glass on the counter behind him. He’s not wearing a robe this time, just a pair of almost identical dark blue pajamas. Martín isn’t sure he even owned pajamas, he’s always found them either a child’s or an old man thing. That was, of course, before meeting Andrés; he’s had a change of heart since he started to wake up wrapped in silk, in Andrés’ arms. He fiddles with the cuff of his own (well, Andrés’) pajamas - why did pajamas even need cuffs? - and plants his heel on the floor while he speaks.

“Well, nothing happened. He fell asleep; he’s probably still in that chair, drooling all over himself. I made sure to leave no fingerprints. No cameras through where he took me. It was like shooting fish in a barrel, really.”

“So, let me get this straight, you come right back to me after making out with some guy?”

“Yes? I’m sorry? I— It wasn’t like that.”

“You come straight here, to tell me that you love me.”

“ _And_. I came straight here,” _I nearly ran_ , he thinks but obviously doesn’t say out loud, “ _and_ told you that I love you. I actually came here to give you the data. The other stuff just— came out.” He’s shrugging again, like he couldn’t help it, which— True, to an extent. 

Andrés smiles then pushes against the sink and pours the rest of his glass down the drain, bending to put it in the dishwasher. Martín ogles, a little annoyed at himself for doing it but doing it nonetheless.

“Actually,” Andrés says after he’s retrieved Martín’s glass too and given him a second delightful look at his ass while loading the dishwasher, “I’m rather impressed, that was some quick thinking on your part. A lot of recklessness, too. Are you sure no one saw you? No cameras, no prints?”

“Absolutely,” Martín nods. He _has_ been careful. “I’ve picked up a thing or two from hanging around you guys. Also, you forget that I work in the bookstore, and there are books onevery subject. I mean it, _everything._ One day this lady came in to ask about books on painting chairs - yes, chairs specifically - and we had _two_ books on the subject,” his hands fly up in annoyance. It was his first week working in the bookstore and it was strange enough to make him instantly fall in love with the place. Looking back now, he’s suddenly struck with how much of a good thing in his life the bookstore has been. It’s facilitated his friendship with Mirko, gave him access to a world of knowledge, gave him such reverence for books (one day, while walking down an isle, he had this sudden realization that each and every book was someone’s dream come true, and he was some sort dream-peddler, and—) The bookstore also brought him Andrés, who was slowly but surely changing every aspect of Martín’s life - and Martín _loved_ it. 

Andrés smiles, amused, and Martín catches himself gliding down memory slope before he gets too far. “What was I saying? God, I’m exhausted.” 

“You were telling me about how working in a bookstore makes you a good thief.”

Martín snickers. “I do okay.”

“Alright,” Andrés sighs and drags a chair to sit at the table. “Are you sure it’s what we need?”

“Can’t be sure until we decrypt it, but my money is on ‘yes’.”

“Where is it?”

“Jeans pocket, the thumb drive on my keychain.”

“Bring it over. I’ll call Sergio, see when he can pick it up and send it to our tech guy.”

  


The adrenaline has all but melted away by the time they’re finally in bed. They’re exhausted, and they have an early wake-up: Sergio will drop by first thing in the morning to get the drive, and Martín has to go to work. Before they fall asleep, Martín nudges Andrés slightly.

“So you’re not… angry?”

“That you got us the data? Absolutely not.” He shifts closer, but Martín can’t really see him in the darkened room. “ _How_ you got it? It was rather… unorthodox, but you thought on your feet and left no traces. That’s admirable, really. Though I must admit that I’m not fond of the idea of you kissing other people.”

“Then I won’t be kissing other people.”

“Good.”

There’s no grand declarations, just a sleepy kiss, and then they drift to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrés is loading the washing machine, then putting the empty bottles of wine in the recycling. It’s a small, almost domestic moment that Martín gets drawn in. He leans against the doorway to the kitchen and watches Andrés clean up, put things in the fridge, completely unselfconscious and calm. When he’s done, he takes Martín’s arm and drags him away from the door frame and into the shower, where, by a miracle, they manage to actually get clean before they get hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW - this chapter contains some knife play and blood play.

The next day he hangs by his phone, waiting for a sign from either Andrés or Sergio about the contents of the drive. What if he did all that in vain? In retrospect, even Martín has to admit that the idea of kissing other men and ultimately getting their plan back on track is much better than him kissing other men for no practical purpose. Which, to a certain degree, used to be Martín’s hobby; weird how it doesn’t seem all that appealing anymore.

Sergio finally calls a couple of hours before closing time. He doesn’t say anything on the phone, but calls both him and Mirko over at Andrés’ place right after they’re done with work. On the bus there, while silently sitting by Mirko who’s deep in his own book, it randomly occurs to Martín that he’s never seen Sergio’s place. An odd little thought that stays with him even as they reach Andrés’ apartment, and they’re let in by Sergio himself.

“Mirko, can you please help Andrés load some equipment in the van?” As if summoned, Andrés comes in view, straining to carry a narrow box that seems fairly heavy. He gives Martín a kiss, making Sergio look tangibly uncomfortable, then walks out the door. Sergio points Mirko to the living room. “The other box is in there, it’s really not that heavy. The van’s in the underground parking lot.”

Martín follows Sergio to the living room table which he’s surprised to find empty for once when Sergio’s there. But Sergio sits down so he does as well, drumming his fingers against the table. He wants to ask about the data, it’s all he’s been able to think of all day, but something about the scene makes Martín nervous. They’ve sat at that table before, just the two of them, the only difference this time is that there’s a lot less clutter between them - in more ways than one.

“There’s something you told me not long ago,” Martín starts, settling back against the chair, trying to calm his fingers from their incessant beat. He remembers that talk very well, and how he thought that he’d _won_ , somehow. But what Sergio said, it stuck with him, so clearly he’s taken some hits as well. “You said that Andrés is used to falling in and out of love, and it made me think—” 

Sergio shakes his head. “Martín, I didn’t—”

“Let me finish. You may be right. It would fucking _ruin_ me if it was true, but I don’t care; I love Andrés. Now, I know this goes against your very first rule, and I understand why, but I want you to know that I won’t betray you. I respect you, both of you, enough to not get myself in this without accepting _all_ of the consequences.”

“Martín,” Sergio sighs, slumping his shoulders. “I’m sorry for what I said. You don’t know what this all— what it means to me. It isn’t about the money; it isn’t even about the signal that we’re sending about the system. This is my father’s legacy. Our father’s legacy. It’s important to me that I see it through, and that it _works_ , just the way dad saw it would.”

It was Andrés that told him, not long ago, about Sergio’s childhood. His years spent in and out of hospitals, all the time he’s spent with his father. Strangely enough, Andrés doesn’t seem hurt by that, by the fact that Sergio had all that time with their father - if anything, he seems happy for his brother. It’s about as wholesome as someone like Andrés can get, and Martín suddenly has a better understanding of how the brothers work. Sergio isn’t being insufferable because he’s jealous (or just… naturally annoying). This is important to him to a level that Martín hadn’t fully appreciated until then.

“Also,” Sergio shakes his head in a small surrender. “I should have known better than to stand in Andrés’ way. He’s this unstoppable force, and you’re— you’re quite the immovable object. And you came with your own heavy anchor.”

“That’s,” Martín scrunches his nose and looks up, “that’s a lot of metaphors. You spend too much time with Andrés, and it shows.” 

Sergio laughs, softly, brightening with a beautiful smile. Martín remembers, suddenly, those days not long ago when he really didn’t know Sergio and he _hit on him_. It seems mortifying to think of now, and a little bit inappropriate, too.

“I’ve had to suffer through so much of Andrés’ self-torture when it came to you. I think it was the first time he’s used his brain when affairs of the heart were involved, and let me tell you, it was quite something to watch. I can safely say that I’ve never seen Andrés like this. He’s serious about this. And— I trust him.”

“...what anchor?” 

Yeah so he got stuck on the metaphor because he tried to work it out, but Sergio kept talking, and— The question stops Sergio in his tracks, and he tilts his head to the side, in a brief confusion before laughing.

“Mirko. I knew you two from the library, I sort of suspected that you’d be a package deal; I just hadn’t looked into him until, well, until it became obvious that I should. I first thought that we’d be getting two engineers, but as it turns out—” Sergio shrugs, smiling. “he was a pleasant surprise.”

“Yeah, you don’t say,” says Martín, softly. 

“My point is. Unstoppable force - immovable object. I can’t stop Andrés even if I tried - and I don’t want to.”

“That’s— good?”

“We’re doing this,” says Sergio, leaning over the table slightly, his body punctuating the end of the previous talk. “So this means that your life will change.”

“Yeah, we’ll be unbelievably rich. Or in prison. Or dead!”

“Preferably the first one, if we stick to the plan. But I mean before that. You’ll need to have some training soon - weapons, hand to hand combat, negotiation— You have most of your weekends and some weeknights booked; we’ll go over the schedule as soon as the others get back. And then, five or six months before the heist, when we’ll have the full team, we’ll isolate and work on all details together.”

“For six whole months?”

Sergio nods, pushing his glasses up his nose. “This means, I’m afraid, that you’ll have to stop working at the bookstore.”

Martín knew it— not necessarily in this context, but he knew it would happen. Still, it hurts to truly consider it.

“When?”

“It’s too soon to tell. If the data you got us is what we need - my contact wants to make sure he won’t set off any alarms when decrypting so it will take a little more time to be sure - we should be back on track. I’m thinking we still got a good six months before everything is set and we can start assembling the team.”

Since they would be some of his last months working in the bookstore, Martín can’t properly gauge if six months is too little time or just enough. All he wants is to properly say goodbye. It would be the end of an era.

It would be more than that, he’d be leaving behind everything that he knows.

Later that evening, after Andrés and Mirko come back, Sergio tells them more about the time they’re supposed to spend inside the Mint and, in broad terms, what they’ll do once they’re out. Not a lot of details yet, Sergio insists there’s a good reason for that, but what Martín takes from it is that he was right - his life as he knows it will end when he steps foot inside the Mint. 

  


Mirko is the first to understand that he’s overstayed his welcome, and Sergio, fortunately, picks up on it as well. They both leave, some plans thoroughly laid out, other plans made and handed out. Martín is honestly sick of it, of his heavily planned future, his apparent lack of choice before being thrown in a world of wild - although heavily restricted - possibility. It’s plans, plans, plans, and at least for the night, he’s _done_.

Andrés is loading the washing machine, then putting the empty bottles of wine in the recycling. It’s a small, almost domestic moment that Martín gets drawn in. He leans against the doorway to the kitchen and watches Andrés clean up, put things in the fridge, completely unselfconscious and calm. When he’s done, he takes Martín’s arm and drags him away from the door frame and into the shower, where, by a miracle, they manage to actually get clean before they get hard. 

  


Andrés’ long fingers wrap around the wooden slats in the headboard, trying to play nice, but making it clean with his smile that he’s just playing. Martín can’t have that.

“If you let go, I’ll tie you up and you don’t want to make me work for that, do you?” He leans close enough to say it in Andrés’ ear. “ _Be good_.”

Laughable, really, Andrés could challenge like the best of brats, unafraid to get in anyone’s face and stir up a fight. But Martín needed him to be good, and— Andrés wasn’t.

He’s looking around him at the shiny - probably silk - sheets, then he makes a face. They were _not_ going to make it through the night, not with what he had in mind. 

“How attached are you to these sheets?”

Andrés looks at him with increasing apprehension, a small tilt on his head when he speaks, somehow oblivious to what Martín meant. “What?”

“Lube stains. And— other fluids.”

_Other fluids_ , Martín can’t help the beaming smile that spreads on his face at the new world of possibilities that a clean STD panel now gives them. They’re about to get _gross_ (but, like, in a sexy way).

Andrés, who seems to have his priorities straight once he understands, shakes his head. “Oh. Not overly attached, no.”

“Good.” Martín sits back on his heels, deciding on the best way to approach things, then leans over to get the lube.

He may have read this technique from a book - while on company time, too, which he still feels conflicted about - but he seems to have gotten the hang of it immediately. It’s simple really, a very slippery handjob with two hands and a literal twist. Whatever, _it’s working_ ; Andrés is bucking his hips into his hands, making these noises in the back of his throat that seem to vibrate through Martín. Andrés always did like the sound of his own voice, but this time Martín was enjoying it way more. 

And then, at the end of a moan, Andrés’ lets go of the slats in the headboard, grabbing at Martín’s thighs where he’s straddling him. He doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’s done it, deliciously lost in the slippery glide up and down his cock, so Martín stops and it’s only then that Andrés seems to realize what he’s done. He’s looking at his hands and the way they dig into Martín’s skin, then reaches back up, grabbing at the headboard. 

“What did I tell you?”

He could let Andres try (and possibly fail) but he won’t - it’s to help him, really, Martín tells himself as he’s climbing off the bed, even though he knows it’s also for his own enjoyment. Okay, it’s _mostly_ for his own enjoyment. 

“What are—” Andrés moves - to watch him or to follow him, Martín can’t be sure, but he stops him.

“Stay,” Martín says and it doesn’t ring just the same when it comes from him - but Andrés obeys, nonetheless, sinking back into the mattress. A new idea takes residence in his mind when he opens the door to the dresser and takes a look back at Andrés, sprawled on his bed, holding on to the headboard as instructed, he plays nice but— 

It doesn’t take long for Martin to find what he’s looking for - the shallow drawer that he pulls offers a staggeringly wide array of ties, all of them probably needlessly expensive, which makes what he has in mind all that more appealing. Just like the sheets, they’re fine, expensive things that he’s absolutely going to defile, and Andrés is going to love it. 

He picks two of them - a deep, dark green and a pale yellow one - and approaches the bed once more. 

Like the good boy that he most certainly wasn’t, Andrés flexes his hands around the slats in a small visual display of defiant compliance, a ‘ _see? I can be good - if I want to._ ’ Martín was a brat, sure - joyfully so - but when he’s like this? He has no patience for brats.

Which is good, because that’s not what Andrés needs - and it’s easy to understand what he needs, Martín thinks. He’s smiling more to himself than anything when he straddles Andrés, knee-walks close enough to get a good angle for what he was planning. The green tie goes first, twisting around the right wrist tight enough to hold but not to harm, then Martin finishes with a quick-release knot. The left wrist goes next - Andrés keeps his fingers wrapped around the wood, head tilted back to watch Martín, who was quite secure on his technique, thank you very much. He wouldn’t have guessed, that rainy evening at the bookstore that he spent leaning over a big coffee-table book and tying all sorts of knots with Mirko, that he’ll end up using his knowledge for sex, but there he was. 

He’s tying Andrés up and Andrés lets him. It’s a question of trust, at its core. It’s almost poetic how they both need for Andrés to trust him enough to let go, each at the opposite ends of that need. Andrés needs to just— let go, and Martín needs to prove - to himself, mostly - that he can be trusted enough with that. How perfect, how poetic.

Martín’s also spent too much time with Andrés - and felt all the richer for it.

So— trust. He’s thinking about trust when he slides down Andrés’ body, pale skin and lithe muscle straining when he twists and arches up, seeking contact that Martín deliberately avoids. He may not be able to slip into it as easily as Andrés can— but he does. The headspace is one that he inhabits naturally, and he relishes in the feeling.

He’s thinking about trust when he finds himself back between Andrés’ legs, because this does take a lot of trust. It’s been a while since the first time he did this, the first time he breached somebody else’s body, but he can still feel the pulse of fear, the responsibility when trusted the comfort and pleasure of somebody else.

Once again he’s gentle when he opens Andrés up, patiently and wet, watching for all his reactions, not just the sounds he made but the way his entire body responded to the curl and scissor of his fingers with odd little twitches and jumps.

“I’m ready,” comes Andrés’ voice, between harsh breaths. He’s still hanging on to that headboard, the muscles tense with his grip.

“ _I_ decide when you’re ready,” Martín sits back on his heels, “and for what.” He wipes his hand on the sheet, carelessly and just a little rude. He’s the one deciding, yes, it’s just that he has no plans, for a change, and it feels exhilarating. He’s following the fire in his belly when he leans down and takes Andrés’ cock in his mouth.

He wants to ask, he sort of needs to know how he fares at this task compared to the (undoubtedly) many women in Andrés’ life, and it’s not his inherent need for approval - Martín is pretty sure he’s left that back in Argentina - but a presumptuousness that makes him sure, absolutely certain that he’s better at this than anyone else. Andrés seems to agree, his cock swelling and dripping steadily on Martín’s tongue. 

Which of course, is when he gets up, wiping the spit from his chin, smirking at Andrés’ frustrated growl.

“What are—”

Because Martín has an idea. It’s more of a vision really, that came to him as a thought ricocheting from another thought and another - it was hard to unwind that thread and he’s not really interested in how it came up, all that he cares about is that he wants it. 

Fuck it, he’s doing it.

“Where’s your first aid kit?”

Andrés lifts his head, straining to look at him, trying to focus on words, on understanding and saying them alike.

“Bathroom.” Then, after a second, “Why?”

“Because,” Martin sits back on his heels, and he tries to focus, on putting it out there in a way that sounds - appealing. “I was thinking of that fancy pocket knife of yours, and how nice that blade would look on your thigh.” The sentence hangs, a little heavy, until Andrés makes a move, but it’s not apprehension, it’s curiosity. Martín runs his fingers up the plane of his abdomen, then over his chest and the little hairs that stand there, “I want to cut you - just a little. If you’ll let me.”

“That’s—”

“You can say no.” He feels the need to make it clear, even though was understood. “To any of it, at any time.”

Andrés swallows, hard enough that Martín can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down before he nods.

“I trust you.”

He leaves Andrés tied to the bed when he goes to find the first aid kit, which he looks through before carefully washing his hands. He gets hyper-focused before going through a mental checklist of what he needs, how deep he can cut, where it’s safe, where to avoid.

Andrés watches him curiously when he’s back, sat between his legs with the first aid kit by his side. Martín disinfects his hands, then surprises Andrés by running a wet piece of gauze down his thighs that makes him flinch and strain to look down at what Martín is doing.

“Granted, this may not feel sexy now, but I don’t want to skip this step. Playing smart and all that.”

Andrés puffs a small laugher, throwing his head back on the pillow. “It’s just cold.” 

Martín watches the gauze go over skin, the sting of the alcohol burning his nose, making him alert and hyper-aware of his surroundings. 

“Are you scared?” Martín pours all his focus on disinfecting the knife, blade and handle alike, not looking at Andrés as he asks. It’s certainly a loaded question to ask outright but he can’t help it. At least he allows Andrés to have privacy when he’s looking for his answer. 

“In a way? Knives are weapons, after all. I know how easily they can— change everything.”

Martín nods, then smiles. He sets the supplies aside then grabs the knife, holding it in his hand, feeling its small weight against his palm and the way the wooden handle elegantly curves in his grip. It feels real, a solid thing in his hand, but for a second it feels like nothing, and Martín’s head is swimming when he inhales, before he exhales it all out, tension and fog alike. 

“Trust me.” “I do.”

He sits on his Andrés’ legs, resting against his shins. 

“Now, it’s important that you sit still, no jerky movements, no flinching. Can you do that?”

Andrés nods, and this time he seems to understand. He lets go of his breath, relaxing his muscles, shifting a bit before stopping. 

Martín doesn’t make a show out of it. He balances the knife on two of his fingers, presenting it with no fanfare, then he lets the hand holding it drop just out of sight. In those few seconds, when the memory of the blade was still new, its absence was all the more glaringly obvious, and Andrés is tense again, inhaling sharper when the cold steel first touches his skin.

The blade is pressed against the fatty bits on the inside of Andrés’ thigh, a shiny silver against his pale skin, and judging by the small tremor that vibrates through him, he can’t tell that it’s the dull edge digging into his flesh. 

“Relax,” Martín whispers, his voice suddenly heavy with _something_. 

He runs the blade down, just a couple of centimeters, and Andrés’ breath shudders with it. Somewhere along the way, between Martín making him wait and all the disinfecting, Andrés had gone soft - well, his dick was filling again, twitching to hardness every time Martín sinks the steel into his skin. His breath is getting heavier, and he begins to squirm, to try to move enough to have a look, but Martín plants his other hand, heavy, on his chest.

“Sit still.” He doesn’t feel like reminding Andrés of how sharp the blade is, how moving can make his hand slip - he doesn’t have to; Andrés settles slowly against the pillow, and Martín resumes. 

When he moves to the other thigh, his own breath catches before lowering the blade. He turns the knife in his hand, this time pressing the sharp edge to the skin. It’s the most superficial cut, he’s barely breaking a layer of skin, and yet— the haze that settles in his mind is instantaneous. Heavy. There’s no blood when he lifts his hand, and he can barely see where he’s broken the skin, and still he takes a couple of seconds before pushing down again.

It feels like his hands are shaking, or at least like they should be - but they aren’t. Not a single tremor, despite the rush of unexplained power that’s almost making him dizzy.

The second cut he’s making is lower than the one before it, and Martín pinches a bit of skin between his fingers before slowly pressing the blade in. It cuts through, barely a millimeter deep, and slides down like it’s nothing. Andrés’ breath goes surprisingly steady and it’s such a sudden shift that Martín whips his head up to check on him. 

Andrés is _fine_. His eyes, open and staring at the ceiling, are glazed over and his features have gone slack. He’s obviously in a _good_ place. It’s all chemicals, really; a brain cocktail of all the good stuff that Andrés is getting more and more intoxicated with. 

A new cut, and this time Martín presses deeper - a feather-light press still, it’s nothing, absolutely nothing, but when he slides lower, there’s a scarlet point that breaks through at the top of the cut and— _oh_. Oh _fuck_.

Andrés felt it. He takes a deep breath and his eyes go wider, but he’s holding himself as still as he can, not even daring to make a sound.

“Okay?”

It’s all that Martín can ask, although somewhere in the back of his mind there’s something about proper communication in this context, something he can’t quite remember so he settles on the first thing he can.

Andrés nods.

“More?”

“Yes.”

Pinpricks of blood shine from the previous cut, and Martín moves just above it, trying for a parallel cut. Three centimeters wide, maybe less - but he moves slow enough that one cut feels like it takes minutes. He knows just how deep to push for a little blood to come up in the wake of the blade, and he’s starting to get hooked on the rush he gets every time he pierces the skin and every time Andrés holds his breath like that. 

It’s cut after cut after cut, neatly arranged, carefully scored, until Andrés stops holding his breath every time the blade slices skin. He’s hard and absolutely high on endorphins, laying mollified against the sheets. It strikes Martín, when he shifts to get a better angle, right as the metal slides through skin, that what this is a lot like playing his guitar. His hands create vibrations that turn into sound when his fingers dig into metal, be it the tight coil of a guitar string or the solid edge of the knife. 

Andrés is in it _deep_. The only move he makes, when Martín gets up and crawls on top of him, is stopped short by one of the ties. His eyes are still shut, lips bitten red and parted, but they fly open the instant when Martín presses the blade, blunt edge first, in the crease of his thigh, right near his balls. 

“Do you know how close I am to the femoral artery?” He hides his face in Andrés’ neck, pasting his smile to his collarbone. He’s not pushing the knife; it’s just there and Martín is so aware of its presence, its weight in the heat of Andrés’ thigh. “Just a little to the right, and—”

Andrés hums, a deep vibration in his chest that sounds almost pained. He whispers a breathy, ‘yes’ that can mean anything but probably means nothing at all, and turns, brushing his lips to Martín’s hair. So he moves to catch those lips, he lets his tongue slip in Andrés’ mouth, feeling his moans and his little gasps for air. And then he pushes the knife harder, his arm so tense between their bodies, almost trembling with restraint. 

“Fuck,” sobs Andrés, his cock jerking where it’s caught under Martín’s arm. 

“Do you trust me?” 

Andrés nods, slowly at first then faster, pulling away and seeking Martín’s eyes. “I do.”

And it’s not the words that fucking break Martín, it’s what he sees in Andrés’ eyes, along with the hurt vulnerability, there are tears. It’s a steady stream, falling quietly down the sides of his face, so poignant and yet completely broken from the rest of his face which is open in lazy pleasure. The tears rattle Martin, a flutter in his pulse that makes him ease the press of his hand on the knife, that softens his body. 

“You okay?”

Instead of a yes or a no, Andrés just says, “I love you,” and it’s as raw and honest as he’s always said it but it’s also somehow _more_. Andrés is smiling now, face opened up in a smile that contrasts so starkly to the tears that are still slowly streaming down his face.

And what can he say? The ‘ _I love you_ ’ still tastes new on his tongue but it feels right, so he says it again. 

He doesn’t untie Andrés, but he puts the knife away on the nightstand and finds the lube again. For all that he hasn’t as much as touched himself the whole evening, he feels like he’s not going to last - which is tragic, since he really wants to enjoy this. 

He settles between Andrés’ thighs, spread wide just for him, with neat cuts spanning the white skin, little red lines punctuated by small drops of blood that have dried into small pinheads that are growing darker. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, Martín thinks, and he has to fight the urge to run his fingers over his thighs - or even better, his tongue, and to taste the copper there, the metal. 

“Please,” says Andrés, arching off the bed, pulling at the ties, but he doesn’t say more. He doesn’t have to, Martín slicks his cock with a squeeze of lube and a light hand, then rubbing the excess on his fingers around Andrés’ asshole, watching him squirm and moan so pretty. 

“Ready?” Martín asks, lining himself up, biting his lip to keep from pushing forward when his cockhead touches the hot, slick puckered skin. Andrés seems just as close to coming undone as Martín is, and his voice comes lower when he finally manages a _‘yes’_.

  


It’s hotter like this, impossibly tighter, and it shouldn’t make that much of a difference, the lack of a condom, but fuck, _it does_. Martín’s breath catches in his throat until he’s fully seated, when he finally exhales and opens his eyes, and Andrés is— eyes rolled back, mouth open but silent, but he’s grabbing the wooden bars and he’s pushing back. Such— such a needy move, hungry, wanton, all the things that spur Martín on instantaneously and he pulls out, drawing a long moan out of Andrés. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Martín manages, and he’s drunk with it, the tight squeeze around his cock and the slick, scorching heat that’s almost too much already. And he’s gone raw before, it shouldn’t feel as new as it does, but— Andrés is pliant when Martín shifts to push his knees up, hooking them around his arms, leaning back to get more leverage. He gets lost in this feeling, moving slowly at first, slow but _deep_ , with a grind at the end of each thrust, before picking up the pace and just— giving in. 

It’s just them in that moment, him and Andrés, their moans and heavy breaths, the slap of their skin, it’s just them and the pull of his cock. The sensations change like colors dancing on a soap bubble before it bursts, going from slick, too slick, to a more insistent drag when the lube begins to dry out. And it’s—

It’s transcendent. It’s not dirty, not obscene despite the sounds they make, despite the blood that Martín can swear he almost smells in the air around them; it’s soft and loving and intoxicating, better than any drug that Martín’s ever tried. This is all him - dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, oxytocin - it’s love, broken down to basic chemistry, it’s all in his brain and he drowns in it. 

“Ah—” Andrés starts to speak but ends with a moan, weakly fighting against the restraints. “I—” It’s all he manages when he opens his mouth again, and then he’s coming. Martín’s caught by surprise, and can barely take his eyes from Andrés’ face to watch as his cock stripes his chest, twitching with every pulse, untouched.

Martín feels a sob wrench out of him at the sight, and can’t help kissing Andrés through the aftershocks, swallowing his moans, breathing wetly against his jaw as he speeds up his thrusts. And when he comes, is it minutes later? hours? seconds? He can’t tell, but he’s coming, his toes curl and his eyes squeeze as he pumps inside Andrés, his cock sliding easier with the new slickness. 

It takes a while for him to recover, for his heart to stop racing, and he looks at Andrés while he does. Andrés looks serene. His lazy smile feels dopey, he looks peacefully satiated but there’s that glint in his eye, the one showing that he’s back, and Martín feels the words as much as he hears them.

“Thank you.” 

Does love really feel like this? Martin gets dizzy when he sits up too fast, and settles back high up on Andrés’ lap for a minute, mindful to not touch his thighs. That was— He can see the knife on the nightstand and although it doesn’t glint poetically in the light, it’s there, and Martín’s breath shudders when he inhales. It was a lot of things. Most important of all was the realization of just how much Andrés did trust him. Because it was all about trust really, he had it right. Trust in the other, trust in one’s self. 

  


Andrés is untied, clutching a tissue to his chest, forgotten, and looking completely blissed-out. Martín is braver so he gets up, feeling the pinpricks in his legs start to dance on his skin as soon as he moves. From there, it’s a rush to the bathroom in an attempt to out-run the certain numbness that’s sure to render his feet useless in seconds. He makes it on time, and ends up giggling, resting against the edge of the tub and flexing his toes to feel the numbness dance under his skin. It’s an alien thing, no matter how often it happens, and Martín is just as fascinated by it as he was the first time he’s experienced it.

Okay, so he was still post-coital dumb, and his brain still needed a while to fully reboot. He sludges through the motions, his mind is uncharacteristically blank - well not _blank-_ blank, but quieter, slowed-down. He’s certainly gone through his supplies of feel-good brain-stuff so that was just— him. And wasn’t it nice to be there again.

He’s just about to step in the shower when Andrés knocks twice before stepping in anyway. 

They’re getting better at showering without ending up needing to shower again, which was particularly useful this time since Martín really wanted to make sure that Andrés’ cuts were okay, that he didn’t do any damage. He knew he couldn’t have, but— he’s put them there, makes sense that he should take care of them too. Being on his knees in front of Andrés, both of them naked, without anyone getting off at the end of it, they were starting to get good at that too. 

There’s not much talk after that; once they’re clean and dry, sheets changed, Andrés pulls a thicker comforter and they both slip under it, naked for once. The slide of the cold silk over Martín's shower-raw skin makes him light up everywhere, a fire that only Andrés’ warm body manages to dull. 

“Are you okay?” They seemed to have so many of these conversations in the dark, but this time all the lights were on, no place to hide, all truth. Andrés doesn’t look away, doesn’t even think before answering.

“I am. Are _you_ okay?”

“So okay that I might think to change my meaning for ‘fine’.”

“Good.” 

“Good,” Martín agrees, for lack of anything else to say. 

Andrés is wearing his ‘cheap’ suit, as he calls it (it isn’t, Martín remembers balking at the price tag when he first saw it) and is walking up the stairs in the bank. The ground floor is swarming with people, everyone with their own little task, so caught up in their own lives that they’re unaware of the fact that there’s a wolf between them. Andrés takes the stairs to the left, eyes trained forward, stepping with elegant determination. 

Andrés walks past everyone, self-assured and unchallenged. Some people turn to look at him for merely a glimpse before returning to their own business, like he was merely a specter. Martín seems to be the only one who can see him, and he follows, unnoticed, a few steps back. 

The walk seems endless, Martin seems to glide, the corridor changes appearance around them but no one bats an eye - least of all Martín. He doesn’t care about any of that, all he sees is Andrés, with his dark suit and his invisible mask. 

The corridor ends in beams of light, cutting diagonally into a large, ornate set of doors. 

‘ _The Governor of the Bank of Spain_ ’, says the card on the door - so clearly despite the letters dancing and coiling around each other. Andrés doesn’t turn around, but Martín has a feeling that he knows he’s there, and when he pushes the handle, he takes a step to the side as if to show Martín what’s inside. The last thing Martín sees before he wakes up is the golden waterfall that is hurtling down, ceiling to floor, once Andrés opens the door.

  


It made perfect sense, Martín thought. Poetically so. He could wrap it up in so many ways - even in some sort of anti-system statement, _à la_ Sergio - but he won’t. In the safety of his own thoughts, in the quiet before dawn breaks and life starts around them anew, right there in Andrés’ bed, as the plan is forming in his mind, he can be honest with himself. He’s not doing that for any other reason other than the fact that he wants to do this with Andrés.

_For_ him. 

Martín almost jumps out of his skin when he suddenly hears Andrés’ voice beside him.

“I like that look on you.”

“Fuck!” He’s cursing some more, clutching at the sheets, and Andrés gets up, apologetic when squeezing his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”

“It’s fine. I, uh— I was a million miles away. Good morning,” he says into Andrés’ kiss.

Andrés settles back against the headboard, allowing the sheet to slip off his naked body in a completely distracting way. “That look,” he says, stretching lazily, “you’re thinking about something. What is it?”

Martín breaks away from the tantalizing view of Andrés’ hip, and somehow manages to drop him right in the middle of his thought, no preamble, no context. 

“Did you know that gold melts at a little over a thousand degrees Celsius? I know that sounds like a lot but it really isn’t.”

It’s not what he wanted to say, not quite, but - it’s not a bad start either.

“What are you talking about?”

“I have a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tiredly walks in, slapping a fat, rainbow-colored dildo on the table] Right, so. Knife play and blood play - dangerous. Hot AF, but hey! It’s not called ‘edge-play’ for nothing (hah). I didn’t get into half of the technicalities of doing this as safely as possible. ~~But at least after 2020 we’re all a little bit savvier about properly washing our hands and disinfecting stuff.~~ Anyway, don’t do this at home and if you do, make sure to play it safe, sane, and consensual. Thank you for coming (*snort*) to my TED talk. 
> 
> I can’t believe this is done! This was supposed to be a 4-chapter, 20k words- _max_ type of fic and somewhere along the way, it took me... _here_ and I’m grateful for it.Thank you for joining me on this wild ride! <3
> 
> I have an epilogue in the works, in which ~~I~~ Martín says goodbye to the bookstore.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never worked in a coffee shop, nor did I spend enough time in one so I could write that AU - so have this one instead!  
> Courtesy of my many years working in bookstores and having the absolute time of my life with my amazing co-workers.


End file.
